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COMMONPLACE, 


A Tae or To-pay; 


Woaoeorre Kh SrLORITES. 


BY 


Sion GROSSE TTI, 


AUTHOR OF ‘GOBLIN MARKET,’ AND 
THE PRINCE’S PROGRESS.’ 


‘From sea to sea.’ 


BOSTON : 
ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
1870. 





PREFATORY NOTE. 





THE earliest of these tales dates back to 1852, 
the latest was finished in 1870: a lapse of years 
sufficient to account for modifications of fone 
and style. 

‘Pros and Cons,’ and ‘The Waves of this 
Troublesome World,’ were written each with a 
special object; which special object will, I hope, 
‘be accepted as my apology if the latter tale is 
judged too childish. 

Not one of the stories is founded on fact. 
This might not seem worth stating, had I 
not reason to fear that one or two of my 


kindest friends have viewed ‘The Lost Titian’ 


Vi PREFATORY NOTE. 


somewhat in the light of an imposture. I 
therefore take this opportunity of putting on 
record that IJ am not conversant with any 
tradition which points to the existence of a 
lost picture by that great master with whose 
name I have made free. 


C. ae 


April 1870. 


Per LEN TS. 


Pace 
COMMONPLACE. ‘ 3 
THE LOST TITIAN . : : : : ; 145 
NICK . : : : : : 167 
HERO . : 5 : 4 ; : : 3 183 
VANNA’S TWINS. : : : : ; 215 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. : ; , 241 
PROS AND CONS . : eee ek 257 


THE WAVES OF THIS TROUBLESOME WORLD : 271 





COMMONPLACE, 





COMMONPLACE. 


Oren t ERT: 


BROMPTON-ON-SEA—any name not in ‘Brad- 
shaw’ will do—Brompton-on-Sea in April. 
The air keen and sunny; the sea blue and 
rippling, not rolling ; everything green, in sight 
and out of sight, coming on merrily. Birds 
active over straws and fluff; a hardy butterfly 
abroad for a change; a second hardy butterfly 
dancing through mid-air, in and out, and round 
about the first. A row of houses all alike stands 
facing the sea—all alike so far as stucco fronts 
and symmetrical doors and windows could make 
them so: but one house in the monotonous row 


was worth looking at, for the sake of more nu- 


4 COMMONPLACE. 


merous hyacinths and early roses in its slip of 
front garden, and on several of its window-sills. 
Judging by appearances, and for once judging 
rightly, this must be a private residence on an 
esplanade full of lodging-houses. 

A pretty house inside too, snug in winter, 
fresh in summer; now in mid-spring sunny 
enough for an open window, and cool enough 
for a bright fire in the breakfast-room. 

Three ladies sat at the breakfast-table, three 
maiden ladies, obviously sisters by strong family 
likeness, yet with individual differences strong 
also. The eldest, Catherine, Miss Charlmont, 
having entered her thirty-third year, had taken 
on all occasions to appearing in some sort of 
cap. She began the custom at thirty, when also 
she gave up dancing, and adopted lace over her 
neck and arms in evening dress. Her manner 
was formal and kindly, savouring of the pro- 
vinces rather than of the capital; but of the 
provinces in their towns, not in their old country 
seats. Yet she was a well-bred gentlewoman in 
all essentials, tall and fair, a handsome member 


of a handsome family. She presided over the 


COMMONPLACE. 5 


tea and coffee, and, despite modern usage, re- 
tained a tea-tray. 

Opposite her sat Lucy, less striking in fea- 
tures and complexion, but with an expression 
of quicker sensibility. Rather pretty and very 
sweet-looking, not turned thirty as yet, and on 
some points treated by Catherine as still a 
young thing. She had charge of the loaf and 
ham, and, like her elder sister, never indulged 
in opening letters till every one at table had 
been served. 

The third, Jane, free of meat-and-drink re- 
sponsibilities, opened letters or turned over the 
newspaper as she pleased. She was youngest 
by many years, and came near to being very 
beautiful. Her profile was almost Grecian, her 
eyes were large, and her fair hair grew in wavy 
abundance. At first sight she threw Catherine 
and Lucy completely into the shade; after- 
wards, in spite of their additional years, they 
sometimes were preferred, for her face only of 
the three could be thought insipid. Pleasure 
and displeasure readily showed themselves in 
it, but the pleasure would be frivolous and the 


6 COMMONPLACE. 


displeasure often unreasonable. A man might 
fall in love with Jane, but no one could make 
a friend of her; Catherine and Lucy were 
sure to have friends, however they might lack 
lovers. 

On the morning when our story commences 
the elders were busied with their respective 
charges, whilst Jane already sipped her tea and 
glanced up and down the Births, Marriages, and 
Deaths, in the ‘Times’ Supplement. There she 
sat, with one elbow on the table and her long 
lashes showing to advantage over downcast eyes. 
Dress was with her a matter for deep study, and 
her pink-and-white breakfast suit looked as fresh 
and blooming as April’s self. Her hair fell 
long and loose over her shoulders, in becoming 
freedom; and Catherine gazing at her felt a 
motherly pride in the pretty creature to whom, 
for years, she had performed a mother’s duty ; 
and Lucy felt how young and fresh Jane was, 
and remembered that she herself was turned 
twenty-nine: but if the thought implied regret 
it was untinctured by envy. 

Jane read aloud: ‘ “ Halberteto silanes aa: 


COMMONPLACE, 7 


wish I were Jane. And here, positively, are 
two more Janes, and not me. “ Catherine ”— 
that’s a death. Lucy, I don’t see you anywhere. 
Catherine was eighty-nine, and much respected. 
“Mrs. Anstruther of a son and heir.” I wonder 
if those are the Anstruthers I met in Scotland: 
she was very ugly, and short. “ Everilda Stella,” 
—how can anybody be Everilda? Then, with 
a sudden accession of interest, ‘Why, Lucy, 
Everilda Stella has actually married your Mr. 
Hartley !’ 

Lucy started, but no one noticed her. Ca- 
therine said, ‘Don’t say “your” Mr. Hartley, 
Jane: that is not a proper way of speaking 
about a married gentleman to an unmarried 
lady. Say “the Mr. Hartley you know,’ or, 
“the Mr. Hartley you have met in London.” 
Besides, I am acquainted with him also; and 
very likely it is a different person. Hartley is 
not an uncommon name.’ 

‘Oh, but it is that Mr. Hartley, sister,’ re- 
torted Jane, and she read: 

““On Monday the 13th, at the parish-church, 
Fenton, by the Rev. James Durham, uncle of 


8 ~ COMMONPLACE. 


the bride, Alan Hartley, Esq. of the Woodlands, 
Gloucestershire, to Everilda Stella, only child and 
presumptive heiress of George Durham, Esq. of 


ee J 


Orpingham Place, in the same county. 


CHAPTER: II. 


FORTY years before the commencement of this 
story, William Charlmont, an Indian army- 
surgeon, penniless, except for his pay, had 
come unexpectedly into some hundreds a- 
year, left him by a maiden great-aunt, who 
had seen him but once, and that when he was 
five years old, on’ which occasion she boxed 
his ears for misspelling ‘elephant.’ His stoicism 
under punishment, for he neither roared nor 
whined, may have won her heart; at any rate, 
from whatever motive, she, years afterwards, 
disappointed three nephews and a female first 
cousin by leaving every penny she was worth 
to him. This moderate accession of fortune 
justified him in consulting both health and 
inclination by exchanging regimental practice 
in India for general practice in England: and 


a combination of apparently trifling circum- 


IO COMMONPLACE. 


stances led him, soon after his return home, 
to settle at the then infant watering-place of 
Brompton-on-Sea, of which the reputation had 
just been made by a royal duke’s visit; and 
the tide of fashion was setting to its shore. 

The house in which our story opens then 
stood alone, and belonged to a clergyman’s 
widow. As she possessed, besides, an only 
daughter, and but a small life annuity—nothing 
more—she sought for a lodger, and was glad 
to find one in the new medical practitioner. 
The widow, Mrs. Turner, was, and felt herself 
to be, no less a gentlewoman when she let 
lodgings than when with her husband and child 
she had occupied the same house alone; no 
less so when after breakfast she donned a 
holland apron and helped Martha, the maid, to 
make Mr. Charlmont’s bed, than when in old 
days she had devoted her mornings to visiting 
and relieving her poorer neighbours, 

Her daughter, Kate, felt their altered for- 
tunes more painfully ; and showed, sometimes 
by uncomfortable bashfulness, sometimes by 


anxious self-assertion, how much importance 


COMMONPLACE. II 


she attached to the verdict of Mrs. Grundy. 
Her mother’s holland apron was to her a daily 
humiliation, and single-handed Martha an irri- 
tating shortcoming. She chilled old friends by 
declining invitations, because her wardrobe 
lacked variety, and shunned new acquaintances 
lest they should call at some moment when 
herself or her mother might have to answer the 
door. A continual aim at false appearances 
made her constrained and affected ; and persons 
who would never have dwelt upon the fact 
that Mrs. Turner let lodgings, were certain to 
have it recalled to mind by Miss Turner’s un- 
easiness. 

But Kate owned a pretty face, adorned by 
a pink-and-white complexion, most refreshing 
to eyes that had ached under an Indian sun. 
At first Mr. Charlmont set her down as merely 
affected and silly; then he began to dwell on 
the fact that, however silly and affected, she 
was indisputably pretty; next he reflected that 
reverses of fortune deserve pity and demand 
every gentleman’s most courteous consideration. 


In himself such consideration at once took the 


12 COMMONPLACE, 


form of books lent from his library ; of flowers 
for the drawing-room, and fruit for dessert. 
Kate, to do her justice, was no flirt, and saw 
without seeing his attentions; but her more 
experienced mother seeing, pondered, and seized, 
or made, an opportunity for checking her 
lodger’s intimacy. Mr. Charlmont, however, 
was not to be rebuffed; opposition made him 
earnest, whilst the necessity of expressing his 
feelings gave them definiteness: and not many 
months later Kate, with the house for her 
dowry, became Mrs. William Charlmont, the 
obnoxious lodger developed into an attached 
and dear husband, and Mrs. Turner retired 
on the life annuity to finish her days in inde- 
pendence. 

A few years passed in hopes and disappoint- 
ments. When hope had dwindled to despond- 
ency a little girl came—Catherine; after another 
few years a second girl, named Lucy in memory 
of her grandmother Turner, who had not lived 
to see her namesake. Then more years passed 
without a baby; and in due course the sisters 


were sent to Miss Drum’s school as day- 


COMMONPLACE. 13 


boarders, their mother having become ailing 
and indolent. 

Time went on, and the girls grew wiser and 
prettier—Catherine very pretty. When she 
was nearly twelve years old, Mr. Charlmont 
said one evening to his wife, ‘I have made my 
will, Kate, and left everything to you in the 
first instance, and between the children after 
you. And she answered, blushing—she was 
still comely, and a blush became her:—‘O 
William, but ‘suppose another baby should 
come?’ ‘Well, I should make my will over 
again, he replied: but he did not guess why 
his wife blushed and spoke eagerly; he had 
quite given up such hopes. 

Mr. Charlmont was fond of boating, and 
one day, when the girls were at home for the 
Easter holidays, he offered to take them both 
for a row; but Catherine had a bad cold, and 
as Lucy was not a good sailor, he did not care 
to take charge of her without her sister. His 
wife never had liked boating. Thus it was 
that he went alone. The morning was dull 
and chilly; but there was no wind, and the 


14 COMMONPLACE. 


sea was almost smooth. He took dinner and 
fishing tackle in the boat with him, and gave 
notice that he should not be at home till the 
evening. 

No wind, no sun; the day grew duller and 
duller, dimmer and dimmer. A _ smoke-like 
fog, beginning on land, spread from the cliffs 
to the beach, from the beach over the water’s 
edge; further and further it spread, beyond 
sight ; it might be for miles over the sea. No 
wind blew to shift the dense fog which hid 
seamarks and landmarks alike. As day waned 
towards evening, and darkness deepened, all 
the fisher-folk gathered on the beach in pain 
and fear for those at sea. They lit a bonfire, 
they shouted, they fired off an old gun or two, 
such as they could get together, and still they 
watched, and feared, and hoped. Now one boat 
came in, now another; some guided by the 
glare, some by the sound of the firing: at last, 
by midnight, every boat had come in safe, 
except Mr. Charlmont’s. 

As concerned him, that night was only like 


all nights and all days afterwards; for neither 


COMMONPLACE. 15 


man, nor boat, nor waif, nor stray from either, 
ever drifted ashore. 

Mrs. Charlmont took the news of her hus- 
band’s disappearance very quietly indeed. She 
did not cry or fret, or propose any measures 
for finding him; but she bade Catherine be 
sure to have tea ready when he came in. This 
she repeated every day, and often in the day; 
and would herself sit by a window looking out 
towards the sea, smiling and cheerful. If any 
one spoke to her she would answer at random, 
but quite cheerfully. She rose or went to bed 
when her old nurse called her, she ate and 
drank when food was set before her; but she 
originated nothing, and seemed indifferent to 
everything except the one anxiety, that tea 
should be ready for her husband on his return. 

The holidays over, Lucy went back to Miss 
Drum’s, trudging to and fro daily; but Cathe- 
rine stayed at home to keep house and sit with 
her poor dazed mother. 

A few months and the end came. One 
night nurse insisted with unusual determination 


on the girls going to bed early; but before 


16 COMMONPLACE. 


daybreak Catherine was roused out of her sleep 
to see a new little sister and her dying mother. 
Life was almost gone, and with the approach 
of death a sort of consciousness had returned. 
Mrs. Charlmont looked hard at Catherine, who 
was crying bitterly, and taking her hand said 
distinctly : ‘Catherine, promise to stay here 
ready for your father when he comes on shore 
—promise some of you to stay here: don't let 
him come on shore and find me gone and no 
one—don’t let the body come on shore and 
find us all gone and no one—promise me, 
Catherine !’ 


And Catherine promised. 


Mr. Charlmont died a wealthy man. He 
had enjoyed a large lucrative practice, and had 
invested his savings profitably: by his will, and 
on their mother’s death, an ample provision re- 
mained for his daughters. Strictly speaking, it 
remained for Catherine and Lucy: the baby, 
Jane, was unavoidably left dependent on her 


sisters; but on sisters who, in after-life, never felt 


COMMONPLACE. 17 


that their own right to their father’s property 
was more obvious or more valid than hers. 
Mr. Charlmont had appointed but one trustee 
for his daughters—Mr. Drum, only brother of 
their schoolmistress, a thoroughly honest lawyer, 
practising and thriving in Brompton-on-Sea; a 
man somewhat younger than himself, who had 
speculated adroitly both with him and for him. 
On Mrs. Charlmont’s death, Mr. Drum proposed 
sending the two elder girls to a fashionable 
boarding-school near London, and Jetting nurse, 
with a wet-nurse under her, keep house in the 
old home with baby: but Catherine set her face 
against this plan, urging her promise to her 
dying mother as a reason for not going away ; 
and so held to her point that Mr. Drum yielded, 
and agreed that the girls, who could not bear to 
be parted, should continue on the same terms as 
before at his sister's school. Miss Drum, an 
intimate friend of their mother’s, engaged to 
take them into such suitable society as might 
offer until Catherine should come of age; and 
as she resided within two minutes’ walk of their 
house, this presented no difficulty. At twenty- 
C 


18 COMMONPLACE. 


one, under their peculiar circumstances, Catherine 
was to be considered old enough to chaperone 
her sisters. Nurse, a respectable elderly woman, 
was to remain as housekeeper and personal at- 
tendant on the children; and a wet-nurse, to be 
succeeded by a nursery-girl, with two other 
maids, completed the household. 

Catherine, though only in her thirteenth year, 
already looked grave, staid, and tall enough for 
a girl of sixteen, when these arrangements were 
entered into. The sense of responsibility waxed 
strong within her, and with the motherly position 
came something of the motherly instinct of self- 


postponement to her children. 


19 


CHAPTER If 


THE last chapter was parenthetical, this takes 
up the broken thread of the story. 

Breakfast over, and her sisters gone their 
several ways, Lucy Charlmont seized the 
‘Times’ Supplement and read the Hartley- 
Durham paragraph over to herself:—‘On Mon- 
day the 13th, at the parish church, Fenton, by 
the Rev. James Durham, uncle of the bride, Alan 
Hartley, Esq., of the Woodlands, Gloucester- 
shire, to Everilda Stella, only child and pre- 
sumptive heiress of George Durham, Esq., of 
Orpingham Place, in the same county.’ 

There remained no lurking-place for doubt. 
Mr. Hartley,—‘ her’ Mr. Hartley, as Jane dubbed 
him,—had married Everilda Stella, a presumptive 
heiress. Thus concluded Lucy’s one romance. 

Poor Lucy! the romance had been no fault 


of hers, perhaps not even a folly: it had arisen 


20 COMMONPLACE. 


thus. When Miss Charlmont was twenty-one 
Lucy was eighteen, and had formally come out 
under her sister’s wing; thenceforward going 
with her to balls and parties from time to 
time, and staying with her at friends’ houses 
in town or country. This paying visits had 
entailed the necessity of Jane’s having a gover- 
ness. Miss Drum had by that time ‘relinquished 
tuition, as she herself phrased it, and retired 
on a conrfortable competence earned by her 
own exertions; therefore, to Miss Drum’s school 
Jane could not go. Lucy, when the subject 
was started, declared, with affectionate impul- 
siveness, that she would not pay visits at all, 
or else that she and Catherine might pay them 
separately ; but Catherine, who considered her- 
self in the place of mother to both her sisters, 
and whose standard of justice to both alike was 
inflexible, answered, ‘My dear’—when Miss 
Charlmont said ‘my dear’ it ended a discussion 
—‘My dear, Jane must have a governess. She 
shall always be with us in the holidays, and 
shall leave the schoolroom for good when she 


is eighteen, and old enough to enter society; 


COMMONPLACE. 21 


but at present I must think of you and your 
prospects.’ So Jane had a fashionable gover- 
ness; fresh from a titled family, and versed in 
accomplishments and the art of dress, whilst 
Catherine commenced her duties as chaperone. 
Lucy thought that her sister, handsomer than 
herself and not much older, might have pros- 
pects too, and tried hard to discover chances 
for her; but Catherine nursed no such fancies 
on her own account. Her promise to her dying 
mother, that some one of them should always 
be on the spot at Brompton-on-Sea, literally 
meant at the moment, she resolved as literally 
to fulfil, even whilst she felt that only by one 
not fully in her right mind could such a pro- 
mise have been exacted. Grave and formal 
in manner, dignified in person, and in disposi- 
tion reserved, though amiable, she never seemed 
to notice, or to return, attentions paid her by 
any man of her acquaintance; and if one of 
these ever committed himself so far as to hazard 
an offer, she kept his secret and her own. | 
Lucy, meanwhile, indulged on her own ac- 


count the usual hopes and fears of a young 


22 COMMONPLACE. 


woman. At first all parties and visits were 
delightful, one not much less so than another 
then a difference made itself felt between them ; 
some parties turned out dull, and some visits 
tedious. The last year of Lucy’s going every- 
where with Catherine, before, that is, she began 
dividing engagements with Jane,—for until Lucy 
should be turned thirty, self-chaperoning was 
an inadmissible enormity in Miss Charlmont’s 
eyes, in spite of what she had herself done; 
as she said, her own had been an exceptional 
case,—in that last year the two sisters had 
together spent a month with Dr. Tyke, whose 
wife had been before marriage ‘another Lucy 
Charlmont, and a favourite cousin of their 
father’s : concerning her, tradition even hinted 
that, in bygone years, she had refused the 
penniless army surgeon. 

Be this as it may, at Mrs. Tyke’s house in 
London, the sisters spent one certain June, and 
then and there Lucy ‘met her fate, as with a 
touch of sentiment, bordering on sentimentality, 
she recorded in her diary one momentous first 


meeting. Alan Hartley was a nephew of Dr. 


COMMONPLACE. 23 


Tyke’s—handsome, and clever on the surface, if 
not deep within. He had just succeeded his 
father at the Woodlands, had plenty of money, 
no profession, and no hindrance to idling away 
any amount of time with any pretty woman who 
was pleasant company. Such a woman was 
Lucy Charlmont. He harboured no present 
thoughts of marriage, but she did; he really 
did pay just as much attention to a dozen girls 
elsewhere, but she judged by his manner to 
herself, and drew from it a false conclusion. 
That delightful June came to an end, and he 
had not spoken; but two years later occurred a 
second visit, as pleasant and as full of misunder- 
standing as the first. Meanwhile, she had re- 
fused more than one offer. Poor Lucy Charlmont: 
her folly, even if it was folly, had not been 
very blameable. 

The disenchantment came no less painfully 
than unexpectedly: and Lucy, ready to cry, 
but ashamed of crying for such a cause, thrust 
the Supplement out of sight, and sitting down, 
forced herself to face the inevitable future. 


One thing was certain, she could not meet 


24 COMMONPLACE. 


Alan—in her thoughts he had long been Alan, 
and now it cost her an effort of recollection to 
stiffen him back into Mr. Hartley—she must 
not meet Mr. Hartley till she could reckon on 
seeing him and his wife with friendly compo- 
sure. Oh! why—why—why had she all along 
misunderstood him, and he never understood 
her? Not to meet him, it would be necessary 
to decline the invitation from Mrs. Tyke, which 
she had looked forward to and longed for 
during weeks past, and which, in the impartial 
judgment of Miss Charlmont, it was her turn, 
not Jane’s, to accept; which, moreover, might 
arrive by any post. Jane she knew would be 
ready enough to pay a visit out of turn, but 
Catherine would want a reason ; and what reason 
could she give? On one point, however, she - 
was determined, that, with or without her reasons 
being accepted as reasonable, go she would not. 
Then came the recollection of a cracker she 
had pulled with him, and kept in her pocket- 
book ever since; and of a card he had left for 
her and her sister, or, as she had fondly fancied, 


mainly for herself, before the last return from 


COMMONPLACE. 25 


Mrs. Tyke’s to Brompton-on-Sea. Treasures no 
longer to be treasured, despoiled treasures,— 
she denied herself the luxury of a sigh, as she 
thrust them between the bars of the grate and 
watched them burn. 


26 


CHAPTER IV. 


‘Lucy, Jane, said Miss Charlmont, some days 
afterwards, addressing her sisters, and holding 
up an open letter,—‘ Mrs. Tyke has sent a very 
kind invitation, asking me, with one of you, to 
stay a month at her house, and to fix the day. 
It is your turn, Lucy; so, if you have no ob- 
jection, I shall write, naming next Thursday for 
our journey to London. Jane, I shall ask Miss 
Drum to stay with you during our absence; 
I think she will be all the better for a change, 
and there is no. person more fit to have the 
charge of you. So don’t be dull, dear, till we 
come back.’ A 

But Jane pouted, and said in a cross tone, 
‘Really, sister, you need not settle everything 
now for me, as if I were a baby. I don’t want 


Miss Drum, who is as old as the hills and as 


COMMONPLACE. 27] 


solemn. Can’t you write to Mrs. Tyke and 
say, that I cannot be left alone here? What 
difference could it make in her large house?’ 

For once Catherine answered her favourite 
sister with severity, ‘Jane, you know why it 
is impossible for us all to leave home together. 
This is the last year you will be called upon 
to remain behind, for after Lucy’s next birthday 
it is agreed between us that she will take turns 
with me in chaperoning you. Do not make 
what may be our last excursion together un- 
pleasant by your unkindness.’ 

Still Jane was not silenced. ‘At any rate, 
it need not be Miss Drum. I will stay here 
alone, or I will have somebody more amusing 
than Miss Drum.’ 

Before Catherine could reply, Lucy with an 
effort struck into the dispute. ‘Jane, don't 
speak like that to our sister; I should be 
ashamed to speak to her so. Still, Catherine,’ 
she continued, without noticing a muttered 
retort from the other, ‘after all, 1 am going to 
side with Jane on the main point, and ask 


you to take her to Notting Hill, and leave me 


28 COMMON PLACE. 


at home to keep house with dear old Miss 
Drum. This really was my own wish before 
Jane spoke, so pray let us not say another 
word on the subject.’ 

But Catherine saw how pale and languid 
she looked, and stood firm. ‘No, Lucy, that 
would be unreasonable; Jane ought not to have 
made any difficulty. You have lost your colour. 
lately and your appetite, and need a change more 
than either of us. I shall write to Mrs. Tyke, 
promising her and the doctor your company 
next Thursday; Jane will make up her mind 
like a good girl, and I am sure you, my dear, 
will oblige me by not withholding your assent.’ 

For the first time ‘my dear’ did not close 
the debate. ‘Catherine,’ said Lucy, earnestly, 
whilst, do what she would, tears gathered in 
her eyes, ‘I am certain you will not press me 
further, when I assure you that I do not feel 
equal to paying this visit. I have felt weak 
lately,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘and I cannot 
tell you how much I long for the quiet of a 
month at home rather than in that perpetual 


bustle. Merely for my own sake, Jane must go.’ 


COMMONPLACE. 29 


Catherine said no more just then; but later, 
alone with Lucy, resumed the subject so far 
as to ask whether she continued in the same 
mind, and answered her flurried ‘yes’ by no 
word of remonstrance, but by an affectionate 
kiss. This was all which passed between them ; 
neither then nor afterwards did the younger 
sister feel certain whether Catherine had or had 
not guessed her secret. 

Miss Drum was invited to stay with Lucy 
in her solitude, and gladly accepted the in- 
vitation. Lucy was her favourite, and when 
they were together, they petted each other very 
tenderly. 

Jane, having gained her point, recovered her 
good humour, and lost no time in exposing 
the deficiencies of her wardrobe. ‘Sister,’ she 
said, smiling her prettiest and most coaxing 
smile, ‘you can’t think how poor I am, and 
how few clothes I’ve got.’ | 

Catherine, trying to appear serenely un- 
conscious of the drift of this speech, replied, 
‘Let us look over your wardrobe, dear, and 


we will bring it into order. Lucy will help, 


30 COMMONPLACE. 


I know, and we can have Miss Smith to work 
here too, if necessary.’ 

‘Oh dear, no!’ cried Janes e* theres no 
looking over what does not exist. If it comes 
to furbishing up old tags and rags, here I 
stay. Why, you’re as rich as Jews, you and 
Lucy, and could give me five pounds a-piece 
without ever missing it; and not so much of 
a gift either, for I’m sure poor papa would 
never have left me such a beggar if he had 
known about me.’ 

This argument had been used more than 
once before. Catherine looked hurt, Lucy 
said, ‘You should remember that you have 
exactly the same allowance for dress and pocket- 
money that we have ourselves, and we both 
make it do.’ 

‘Of course,’ retorted Jane, with latent spite- 
fulness; ‘and when I’m as old and wise as you 
two, I may manage as well; but at present it 
is different. Besides, if I spend most on dress, 
you spend most on books and music, and dress 
is a great deal more amusing. And if I 
dressed like an old fright, I should like to know 


COMMONPLACE. 31 


who’d look at me. You don’t want me to 
be another old maid, I suppose.’ 

Lucy flushed up, and tried to keep her tem- 
per in silence: her sore point had been touched. 
Catherine, accustomed in such cases to protest 
first and yield afterwards, but half ashamed 
that Lucy’s eye should mark the process from 
beginning to end, drew Jane out of the room, 
and with scarcely a word more wrote her a 
cheque for ten pounds, and dropped the subject 
of looking over her wardrobe. 

An ‘hour after the sisters had started for 
London, Miss Drum arrived to take their place. 

Miss Drum was tall in figure, rather slim 
and well preserved, with pale complexion, hair, 
and eyes, and an unvarying tone of voice. 
She was mainly describable by negatives. She 
was neither unladylike, nor clever, nor deficient 
in education. She was old, but not very infirm; 
and neither an altogether obsolete nor a youth- 
ful dresser, though with some tendency towards 
the former style. Propriety was the most sa- 
lient of her attributes, and was just too salient 


to be perfect. She was not at all amusing; in 


32 COMMONPLACE. 


fact, rather tiresome, with an unflagging in- 
tention of being agreeable. From her Catherine 
acquired a somewhat old-fashioned formality ; 
from her, also, high principles, and the instinct 
of self-denial. And because unselfishness, itself 
a negative, was Miss Drum’s characteristic 
virtue, and because her sympathy, however 
prosy in expression, was sterling in quality, 
therefore Lucy, sore with unavowed heart-sorrow, 
could bear her companionship, and run down 
to welcome her at the door with affectionate 


cordiality. 


33 


CHAPTER V. 


LONDON-BRIDGE STATION, with its whirl of 
traffic, seems no bad emblem of London itself: 
vast, confused, busy, orderly, more or less dirty; 
implying enormous wealth in some quarter or 
other ; providing luxuries for the rich, neces- 
saries for the poor; thronged by rich and poor 
alike, idle and’ industrious, young and old, men 
and women: 

London-Bridge Station at its cleanest is 
soiled by thousands of feet passing to and fro: 
on a drizzling day each foot deposits mud in 
its passage, takes and gives mud, leaves its 
impress in mud; on such a day the Station is 
not attractive to persons fresh from the unfailing 
cleanliness of sea coast and inland country ; and 
on such a day, when, by the late afternoon, the 
drizzle had done, and the platform had suffered 

D 


34 COMMONPLACE. 


each its worst,—on such a day Miss Charlmont 
and her pretty sister, fresh and fastidious from 
sea salt and country sweetness, arrived at the 
Station. 

Dr. Tyke’s carriage was there to meet the 
train. Dr. Tyke’s coachman, footman, and 
horses were fat, as befitted a fat master, whose 
circumstances and whose temperament might be 
defined as fat also; for ease, good-nature, and 
fat have an obvious affinity. 

‘Should the hood be up or down?’ The 
rain had ceased, and Miss Charlmont, who 
always described London as stifling, answered, 
‘Up... Jane, leaning back with an elegant ease, 
which nature had given and art perfected, felt 
secretly ashamed of Catherine, who sat bolt 
upright, according to her wont, and would no 
more have lolled in an open carriage than on 
the high-backed, scant-seated chair of her school- 
days. | | 
The City looked’ at once dingy and glaring ; 
dingy with unconsumed smoke, and glaring 
here and there with early-lighted gas. When 
Waterloo Bridge had been crossed matters 


COMMONPLACE. 35 


brightened somewhat, and Oxford Street showed 
not amiss. Along the Edgware Road dirt and 
dinginess re-asserted their sway ; but when the 
carriage finally turned into Notting Hill, and 
drove amongst the Crescents, Roads, and Gar- 
dens of that cleanly suburb, a winding-up 
shower, brisk and brief, not drizzly, cleared the 
way for the sun, and finished off the afternoon 
with a rainbow. | 

Dr. Tyke’s abode was named Appletrees 
House, though the orchard whence the name 
was derived had disappeared before the memory 
of the oldest inhabitant. The carriage drew up, 
the door swung open: down the staircase came 
flying a little, slim woman, with outstretched 
hands and words of welcome; auburn-haired, 
though she had outlived the last of the fifties, 
and cheerful, though the want of children had not 
ceased to be felt as a hopeless disappointment : 
a pale-complexioned, high-voiced, little woman, 
all that remained of that fair cousin Lucy of 
bygone years and William Charlmont. 

Behind her, and more deliberately, descended 
her husband, elastic of step, rotund of figure, 


36 COMMONPLACE. 


bright-eyed, rosy, white-headed, not altogether 
unlike a robin redbreast that had been caught 
in the snow. Mrs. Tyke had a habit of running 
on with long-winded, perfectly harmless common- 
places; but notwithstanding her garrulity, she 
never uttered an ill-natured word or a false one. 
Dr. Tyke, burdened with an insatiable love of 
fun, and a ready, if not a witty, wit, was addicted 
to venting jokes, repartees, and so-called anec- 
dotes; the last not always unimpeachably 
authentic. 

Such were the hosts. The house was large 
and light, with a laboratory for the Doctor, who 
dabbled: in chemistry, and an aviary for his wife, 
who doted on pets. The walls of the sitting- 
rooms were hung with engravings, not with 
family portraits, real or sham: in fact, no sham 
was admitted within ‘doors, unless imaginary 
anecdotes and quotations must be stigmatized 
as shams; and as to these, when taxed with 
invention, the Doctor would only reply by his 
favourite Italian phrase: ‘Se zon 2 vero & ben 


trovato.’ 


COMMONPLACE. 37 


‘Jane, said Mrs. Tyke, as the three ladies 
sat over a late breakfast, the Doctor having 
already retreated to the laboratory and his 
newspaper :—‘ Jane, I think you have made a 
~ conquest.’ | 

Jane looked down in silence, with a conscious 
simper. Catherine spoke rather anxiously: 
‘Indeed, Cousin Lucy, I have noticed what you 
allude to, and I have spoken to Jane about not 
encouraging Mr. Durham. He is not at all a 
man she can really like, and she ought to be 
most careful not to let herself be misunderstood. 
Jane, you ought indeed.’ 

But Jane struck merrily in: ‘Mr. Durham is 
old enough and—ahem !—handsome enough to 
take care of himself, sister. And, besides,’ with 
a touch of mimicry, which recalled his pompous 
manner, ‘Orpingham Place, my dear madam, 
Orpingham Place is a very fine place, a very 
fine place indeed. Our pineapples can really 
hardly be got rid of, and our prize pigs can’t 
see out of their eyes; they can’t indeed, my 
dear young lady, though it’s not pretty talk 
for a pretty young lady to listen to.—Very 


38 COMMONPLACE. 


well, if the pines and the pigs are smitten, why 
shouldn’t I marry the pigs and the pines ?’ 

‘Why not?’ cried Mrs. Tyke with a laugh ; 
but Miss Charlmont, looking disturbed, rejoined : 
‘Why not, certainly, if you like Mr. Durham; 
but do you like Mr. Durham? And, whether 
or not, you ought not to laugh at him,’ 

Jane pouted: ‘Really one would think I 
was a child still! As to Mr. Durham, when he 
knows his own mind and speaks, you may be 
quite sure I shall know my own mind and give 
him his answer.— Orpingham Place, my dear 
Miss Catherine, the finest place in the county ; 
the finest place in three counties, whatever my 
friend the Duke may say. A charming neigh- 
bourhood, Miss Catherine; her Grace the Duchess, 
the most affable woman you can imagine, and my 
lady the Marchioness, a fine woman—a very > 
fine woman. But they can’t raise such pines as 
my pines; they can’t do it, you know; they 
haven’t the means, you know.— Come now, 
sister, don’t look cross; when I’m Mrs. Durham 
you shall have your slice off the pigs and the 
pines.’ 


39 


Cree LER VI. 


EVERILDA STELLA, poor Lucy’s unconscious 
rival, had married out of the schoolroom. Pretty 
she was not, but with much piquancy of face 
and manner, and a talent for private theatricals. 
These advantages, gilded, perhaps, by her re- 
putation as presumptive heiress, attracted to 
her a suitor, to whose twenty years’ seniority 
she felt no objection. Mr. Hartley wooed and 
won her in the brief space of an Easter holiday ; 
and bore her, nothing loth, to London, to 
enjoy the gaieties of the season. Somewhat 
to the bridegroom’s annoyance, Mr. Durham 
accompanied the newly-married couple to town, 
and shared their pretty house at Kensington. 
Alan Hartley, a favourite nephew of Dr. 


Tyke, had, as we know, been very intimate 


40 COMMONPLACE. 


at his house in old days. Now he was proud 
to present his little wife of sixteen to his uncle 
and aunt, though somewhat mortified at having 
also to introduce his father-in-law, whose pom- 
pous manners, and habit of dragging titled 
personages into his discourse, put him to the 
blush. Alan had dropped Everilda, and called 
his wife simply Stella; her father dubbed her — 
Pug; Everilda she was named, in accordance 
with the taste of her peerage-studious mother. 
This lady was accustomed to describe herself 
as of a north-country family—a Leigh of the 
Leazes ; which conveyed an old-manorial notion 
to persons unacquainted with Newcastle-on- 
Tyne. But this by the way: Mrs. Durham had 
died before the opening of our tale. 

At their first visit they were shown into the 
drawing-room by a smiling maid-servant, and 
requested to wait, as Dr. and Mrs. Tyke were 
expected home every moment. Stella looked 
very winning in her smart hat and feather and 
jaunty jacket, and Alan would have abandoned | 
himself to all the genial glow of a bridegroom, 
but for Mr. Durham’s behaviour. That gentle- 


COMMONPLACE. AI 


man began by placing his hat on the floor 
between his feet, and flicking his boots with 
a crimson silk pocket-handkerchief. This done, 
he commenced a survey of the apartment, ac- 
companied by an apt running comment,— 
‘Hem, no pictures—cheap engravings; a four- 
and-sixpenny Brussels carpet ;'a smallish mirror, 
wants regilding. Pug, my pet, that’s a neat 
antimacassar: see if you can’t carry off the 
stitch in your eye. A piano—a harp; fiddle- 
stick !’ 

When Dr. and Mrs. Tyke entered, they 
found the Hartleys looking uncomfortable, and 
Mr. Durham red and pompous after his wont; 
also, in opening the door, they caught the 
sound of ‘fiddlestick!’ All these symptoms, 
with the tact of kindness, they ignored. The 
bride was kissed, the father-in-law taken for 
granted, and Alan welcomed as if no one in 
the room had looked guilty. 

‘Come to lunch and take a hunch,’ said 
the Doctor, offering his arm to Stella. ‘Mother 
Bunch is rhyme, but not reason; you shall 
munch and I will scrunch—that’s both. “Ah! 


42 COMMONPLACE. 


you may well look surprised,” as the foreign 
ambassador admitted when the ancient Britons 
noticed that he had no tail. But you won't 
mind when you know us better; I’m no worse 
than a barrel-organ.’ 

Yet with all Dr. Tyke’s endeavour to be 
funny, and this time it cost him an effort, 
and with all his wife’s facile commonplaces, 
two of the guests seemed ill at ease. Alan 
felt, as it were with every nerve, the impression 
his father-in-law must produce, while Stella, 
less sensitive for herself, was out of countenance 
for her husband’s sake. Mr. Durham, indeed, 
was pompous and unabashed as ever; but 
whilst he answered commonplace remarks by 
remarks no less commonplace, he appeared to 
be, as in fact he was, occupied in scrutinizing, 
and mentally valuing, the plate and china. 

‘Charming weather, said Mrs. Tyke, wit 
an air of intelligent originality. 

‘Yes, ma’am; fine weather, indeed; billing 
and cooing weather; ha! ha!’ with a glance 
across the table. ‘Now I dare say your young 


ladies know what to do in this weather.’ 


COMMONPLACE. 43 


“We have no children, and Mrs. Tyke . 
whispered, lest her husband should hear. Then, 
after a pause, ‘I dare say Orpingham Place was 
just coming into beauty when you left.’ 

, Mr. Durham thrust his thumbs into his 
waistcoat-pockets, and leaned back for conver- 
sation. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to 
that,—I don’t indeed; I don’t know which the 
season is when Orpingham Place is of in 
beauty. Its conservatories were quite a local 
lion last winter—quite a local lion, as my 
friend the Duke remarked to me; and he 
said he must bring the Duchess over to see 
them, and he did bring her Grace over; and 
I gave them a luncheon in the largest con- 
servatory, such as I don’t suppose they sit down 
to every day. For the nobility have blood, if 
you please, and the literary beggars are wel- 
come to all the brains they ’ve got’ (the Doctor 
smiled, Alan winced visibly); ‘but you’ll find 
it’s us city men who’ve got backbone, and 
backbone’s the best to wear, as I observed to 
the Duke that very day when I gave him 
such a glass of port as he hasn’t got in his 


44 COMMONPLACE. 


cellar. I said it to him, just as T say it to 
you, ma’am, and he didn’t contradict me; in 
fact, you know, he couldn't.’ 

After this it might have been difficult to 
start conversation afresh, when, happily, Jane 
entered, late for luncheon, and with an apology » 
for her sister, who was detained elsewhere. She 
went through the necessary introductions, and 
took her seat between Dr. Tyke and Mr, 
Durham, thus commanding an advantageous 
view of the bride, whom she mentally set 
down as nothing particular in any way. 

Alan had never met Jane before. He asked 
her after Miss Charlmont and Lucy, after Lucy 
especially, who was ‘a very charming old friend’ 
of his, as he explained to Stella. For some 
minutes Mr. Durham sat silent, much im- 
pressed by Jane’s beauty and grace; this gave 
people breathing-time for the recovery of ease 
and good humour; and it was not till Dr. Tyke 
had uttered three successive jokes, and every one, 
except Mr. Durham, had laughed at them, that 
the master of Orpingham Place could think of 
any remark worthy of his attractive neighbour ; 


COMMONPLACE. 46 


and then, with much originality, he too ob- 
served,—‘ Charming weather, Miss Jane.’ 

And Jane answered with a smile; for was 
not this the widower of Orpingham Place? 

That Mr. Durham’s conversation on sub- 
sequent occasions gained in range of subject, 
‘is clear from Jane’s quotations in the last 
chapter. And that Mr. Durham was alive to 
Jane’s fascinations appeared pretty evident, as 
he not only called frequently at Appletrees 
House, but made up parties, to which Dr. and 
Mrs. Tyke, and the Miss Charlmonts, were in- 
variably asked. 


46 


CHAPTER VII. 


GAIETY in London, sadness by the sea. 

Lucy did her very best to entertain Miss 
Drum with the cheerfulness of former visits ; 
in none of which had she shown herself more 
considerate of the old lady’s tastes than now. 
She made breakfast half-an-hour earlier than 
usual; she culled for her interesting scraps from 
the newspaper; she gave her an arm up and 
down the Esplanade: on sunny days; she re- 
claimed the most unpromising strayed stitches 
in her knitting; she sang her old-fashioned 
favourite ballads for an hour or so before tea- 
time, and after tea till bed-time played energeti- 
cally at backgammon: yet Miss Drum was 
sensible of a change. All Lucy’s efforts could 
not make her cheeks rosy and plump, and her 
laugh spontaneous; could not make her step 
elastic or her eyes bright. 


COMMONPLACE. 47 


It is easy to ridicule a woman nearly thirty 
years old for fancying herself beloved without a 
word said, and suffering deeply under disappoint- 
ment: yet Lucy Charlmont was no contemptible 
person. However at one time deluded, she had 
never let a hint of her false hopes reach Mr. 
Hartley’s observation; and however now dis- 
appointed, she fought bravely against a betrayal 
of her plight. Alone in her own room she 
might suffer visibly and keenly, but with any 
eye upon her she would not give way. Some- 
times it felt as if the next moment the strain 
on her nerves might wax unendurable; but such 
a next moment never came, and she endured 
still. Only, who is there strong enough, day 
after day, to strain strength to the utmost, and 
yet give no sign? 

‘My dear, said Miss Drum, contemplating 
Lucy over her spectacles and across the back- 
gammon-board one evening when the eyes 
looked more sunken than ever, and the whole 
face more haggard, ‘I am sure you do not take 
exercise enough. You really must do more 


than give me an arm on the Esplanade; all 


48 COMMONPLACE. 


your bloom is gone, and you are much too thin. 
Promise me that you will take at least one long 
walk in the day whenever the weather is not 
unfavourable.’ 

Lucy stroked her old friend’s hand fondly: 
‘I will take walks when my sisters are at 
home again; but I have not you here al- 
ways.’ 

Miss Drum insisted: ‘Do not say so, my 
dear, or I shall feel bound to go home again; 
and that I should not like at all, as we both 
know. Pray oblige me by promising.’ 

Thus urged, Lucy promised, and in secret 
rejoiced that for at least an hour or two of 
the day she should thenceforward be alone, 
relieved from the scrutiny of those dim, affec- 
tionate eyes. And truly she needed some 
relief. By day she could forbid her thoughts to 
shape themselves, even mentally, into words, 
although no effort could banish the vague, dull 
sorrow which was all that might now remain 
to her of remembrance. But by night, when 
sleep paralysed self-restraint, then her dreams 
were haunted by distorted spectres of the past; 


COMMONPLACE. 49 


never alluring or endearing—for this she was 
thankful—but sometimes monstrous, and always 
impossible to escape from. Night after night 
she would awake from such dreams, struggling 
and sobbing, with less and less conscious strength 
to resume daily warfare. 

Soon she allowed no weather to keep her 
indoors at the hour for walking, and Miss Drum, 
who was a hardy disciple of the old school, 
encouraged her activity. She always sought 
the sea, not the smooth, civilised esplanade, but 
the rough, irreclaimable shingle ;—to stray to 
and fro till the last moment of her freedom ; 
to and fro, to and fro, at once listless and un- 
resting, with wide, absent eyes fixed on the 
monotonous waves, which they did not see. 
Gradually a morbid fancy grew upon her that 
one day she should behold her father’s body 
washed ashore, and that she should know the 
face: from a waking fancy, this began to haunt 
her dreams with images unutterably loathsome. 
Then she walked no more on the shingle, but 
took to wandering along green lanes and country 
roads. 

E 


50 COMMONPLACE. 


But no one struggling persistently against 
weakness fails to overcome: also, however pro- 
saic the statement may sound, air and exercise 
will take effect on persons of sound constitution. 
Something of Lucy’s lost colour showed itself, by 
fits and starts at first, next steadily ; her appetite 
came back, however vexed she might feel at its 
return; at last fatigue brought sounder sleep, and 
the hollow eyes grew less sunken. This refresh- 
ing sleep was the turning-point in her case ; it 
supplied strength for the day, whilst each day 
in its turn brought with it fewer and fewer 
demands upon her strength. Seven weeks after 
Miss Drum exacted the promise, Lucy, though 
graver of aspect, and at heart sadder than before 
Alan Hartley’s wedding, had recovered in a 
measure her look of health and her interest in 
the details of daily life. She no longer greatly 
dreaded meeting her sisters when at length 
their much-prolonged absence should terminate ; 
and in spite of some nervousness in the antici- 
pation, felt confident that even a sight of Mr. 
and Mrs. Hartley would not upset the outward 


composure of her decorum. 


COMMONPLACE. 51 


Miss Drum triumphed in the success of her 
prescription, and brought forward parallel in- 
stances within her own experience. ‘That is 
right,’ she would say, ‘my dear; take another 
slice of the mutton where it is not overdone. 
There is nothing like exercise for giving an 
appetite, only the mutton should not be over- 
done. You cannot remember Sarah Smith, who 
was with me before your dear mother entrusted 
you to my care; but I assure you three doctors 
had given her over as a confirmed invalid when 
I prescribed for her ;’ and the old lady laughed 
gently at her own wit. ‘I made her take a 
walk every day, let the weather be what it 
might; and gave her nice, juicy mutton to eat, 
with a change to beef, or a chicken, now and 
then for variety; and very soon you would not 
have known her for the same girl ; and Dr. Grey 
remarked, in his funny way, that I ought to be 
an M.D. myself. Or, again: ‘Lucy, my dear, 
you recollect my French assistant, Mademoiselle 
Leclerc, what a fine, strong young woman she 


was when you knew her. Now when she first 


Re COMMONPLACE. 


came to me she was pale and peaking, afraid 
of wet feet or an open window; afraid of this, 
that, and the other, always tired, and with no 
appetite except for sweets. Mutton and exer- 
cise made her what you remember; and before 
she went home to France to marry an old 
admirer, she thanked me with tears in her eyes 
for having made her love mutton. She said 
“love” when she should have said “like ;” but 
I was too proud and pleased to correct her 
English then, I only answered, “Ah, dear 
Mademoiselle, always love your husband and 
love your mutton.’ 

Lucy had a sweet, plaintive voice, to which 
her own secret sorrow now added a certain 
simple pathos; and when in the twilight she 
sang ‘Alice Grey,’ or ‘She wore a wreath of 
roses, or some other old favourite, good Miss 
Drum would sit and listen till the tears gathered 
behind her spectacles. Were tears in the singer’s 
eyes also? She thought now with more tender- 
ness than ever before of the suitors she had 
rejected in her hopeful, happy youth, especially 


COMMONPLACE. 53 


of a certain Mr. Tresham, who had wished her 
all happiness as he turned to leave her in his 
dignified regret. She had always had a great 
liking for Mr. Tresham, and now she could feel 
for him. 


54 


CHAPTER VIII. 


ON the 28th of June, four letters came to Lucy 
by the first delivery :— 


Jb. 


My dear Lucy, 

Pray do not think me thoughtless if I 
once more ask whether you will sanction an 
extension of our holiday. Mrs. Tyke presses 
us to remain with her through July, and Dr. 
Tyke is no less urgent. When I hinted that 
their hospitality had already been trespassed 
upon, the Doctor quoted Hone (as he said: I 
doubt if it is there) :— 


‘In July 
No good-bye ; 
In August 


Part we must.’ 


COMMONPLACE. 55 


I then suggested that you may be feeling 
moped at home, and in want of change; but, of 
course, the Doctor had still an answer ready :— 

Tell Lucy from me, that if she takes you away 

I shall take it very ill, as the homceopath said 
when his learned brother substituted cocoa-nibs 
for champagne. And all the time Cousin Lucy 
was begging us to stay, and Jane was looking 
at me so earnestly: in short, dear Lucy, if ‘No’ 
must be said, pray will you say it; for I have 
been well-nigh talked over. 

And, indeed, we must make allowances for 
Jane, if she seems a little selfish ; for, to let you 
into a secret, I believe she means to accept 
Mr. Durham if he makes her the offer we all are 
expecting from him. At first I was much dis- 
pleased at her giving him any encouragement, 
for it appeared to me impossible that she could 
view his attentions with serious approbation : 
but I have since become convinced that she 
knows her own mind, and is not trifling with 
him. How it is possible for her to contemplate 
union with one so unrefined and ostentatious I 


cannot conceive, but I have no power to restrain 


56 - COMMONPLACE. 


her ; and when I endeavoured to exert my in- 
fluence against him, she told me in the plainest 
terms that she preferred luxury with Mr. Durham 
to dependence without him. Oh, Lucy, Lucy! 
have we ever given her cause to resent her po- 
sition so bitterly? Were she my own child, I 
do not think I could love. her more or care for 
her more anxiously: but she has never under- 
stood me, never done me justice. I speak of 
myself only, not of you also, because I shall 
never marry, and all I have has been held simply 
in trust for her: with you it is, and ought to be, 
different. 

But you must not suffer for Jane’s wilfulness. 
If you are weary of our absence I really must 
leave her under Cousin Lucy’s care—for she 
positively declines to accompany me home at 
present—and return to every-day duties. I am 
sick enough of pleasuring, I do assure you, as it 
is; though, were Mr. Durham a different man, 
I should only rejoice, as you may suppose. 

Well, as to news, there is not much worth 
transmitting. Jane has been to the Opera three 
, times, and tothe English play once. Mr. Durham 


COMMONPLACE. Ae 


sends the boxes, and Dr. and Mrs. Tyke never 
tire of the theatre. The last time they went to 
the Opera they brought home with them to 
supper Mr. Tresham, whom you may recollect 
our meeting here more than once, and who has 
lately returned to England from the East. 
Through some misunderstanding he expected 
to see you instead of me, and looked out of 
countenance for a moment: then he asked after 
you, and begged me to remember him to you 
when I wrote. He appeared much interested in 
hearing our home news, and concerned when I 
mentioned that you have seemed less strong 
lately. Pray send compliments for him when 
next you write, in case we should see him 
again. 

Mr. Hartley I always liked, and now I like 
his wife also: she is an engaging little thing, 
and gets us all to call her Stella. You, I am 
sure, will be fond of her when you know her. 
How I wish her father resembled her! She is 
as simple and as merry as a bird, and witnesses 
Mr. Durham’s attentions to Jane with perfect 
equanimity. As to Mr. Hartley, he seems as 


58 COMMONPLACE. 


much amused as if the bulk of his wife’s enor- 
mous fortune were not at stake; yet any 
one must see the other man is in earnest. 
Stella is reckoned a clever actress, and private 
theatricals of some sort are impending. I say 
‘of some sort,’ because Jane, who is indisputably 
the beauty of our circle, would prefer zableaux 
vivants ; and I know not which will carry her 
point. 

My love to Miss Drum. Don’t think me 
selfish for proposing to remain longer away 
from you; but, indeed, I am being drawn in 
two opposite directions by two dear sisters, of 
whom I only wish that one had as much good 
sense and good taste as the other. 

Your affectionate sister, 
CATHERINE CHARLMONT. 


IT. 
My dear Lucy, 
I know Catherine is writing, and will 
make the worst of everything, just as if I 
was cut out to be an old maid. 


COMMONPLACE. 59 


Surely at my age one may know one’s 
own mind; and, though I’m not going to say 
before I am asked whether I like Mr. Durham, 
we are all very well aware, my dear Lucy, 
that I like money and comforts. It’s one 
thing for Catherine and you, who have enough 
and to spare, to split hairs as to likes and dis- 
likes; but it’s quite another for me who have 
not a penny of my own, thanks to poor dear 
papa’s blindness. Now do be a dear, and tell 
sister she is welcome to stay this one month 
more; for, to confess the truth, if I remain 
here alone I may find myself at my wit’s end 
for a pound or two one of these days. Dress 
is so dear, and I had rather never go out 
again than be seen a dowdy; and if we are 
to have tableaux I shall want all sorts of 
things. I don’t hold at all with charades and 
such nonsense, in which people are supposed 
to be witty; give me a piece in which one’s 
arms are of some use; but of course, Stella, 
who has no more arm than a pump-handle, 
votes for theatricals. 


The Hartleys are coming to-day, and, of 


60 COMMONPLACE. 


course, Mr. Durham, to take us after luncheon 
to the Crystal Palace. There is a grand con- 
cert coming off, and a flower-show, which would 
all be yawny enough but for the toilettes. I 
dare say I shall see something to set me raving ; 
just as last time I was at the Botanic Gardens, 
I pointed out the loveliest suit of Brussels 
lace over white silk; but I might as well ask 
Catherine for wings to fly with. : 

Good-bye, my dear Lucy. Don’t be cross 
this once, and when I have a house of my 
own, I’ll do you a good turn. 


Your affectionate sister, 
JANE. 


P.S. I enclose Mr. Durham’s photograph, 
which he fished and fished to make me ask 
for, so at last I begged it to gratify the poor 
man. Don’t you see all Orpingham Place in 


his speaking countenance? 


COMMONPLACE. 61 


ITT. 


My dearest Lucy, 

You owe me a kindness to balance my 
disappointment at missing your visit. So please 
let Catherine know that she and Jane may 
give us a month more. Dr. Tyke wishes it 
no less than I do, and Mr. Durham perhaps 
more than either of us; but a word to the 
wise. 

Your affectionate cousin, 
Lucy C. TYKE: 


P.S. The Doctor wont send regards, because 
he means to write to you himself. 


* 


IV. 


Dear Lucy, 

If you agree with the snail, you find 
your house just the size for one ; and lest bestial 
example should possess less force than human, 
I further remind you of what Realmah the 


62 COMMONPLACE. 


Great affirms,—‘I met two blockheads, but the 
one sage kept himself to himself’ All which 
sets forth to you the charms of solitude, which, 
as you are such a proper young lady, is, of 
course, the only anybody you can be in love 
with, and of whose society I am bent on afford- 
ing you prolonged enjoyment. 

This can be effected, if your sisters stay 
here another month, and indeed you must not 
say us nay; for on your ‘yes’ hangs a tale 
which your ‘no’ may for ever forbid to wag. 
Miss Catherine looks glummish, but Jenny is 
all sparkle and roses, like this same month of 
June; and never is shé more sparkling or rosier 
than when the master of Orpingham Place hails 
her with that ever fresh remark, ‘Fine day, 
Miss Jane.’ Don’t nip the summer crops of 
Orpingham Place in the bud, or, rather, don’t 
retard them by unseasonable frost; for I can’t 
fancy my friend will be put off with anything 
less than a distinct ‘no; and when it comes 
to that, I think Miss Jane, in her trepidation, 
will say ‘yes. And if you are a good girl, 


and let the little one play out her play, when 


COMMONPLACE. 63 


she has come into the sugar and spice and all 
that’s nice, you shall come to Notting Hill 
this very next May, and while the sun shines 
make your hay. 


Your venerable cousin’s husband 
(by which I merely mean), 
Your cousin’s venerable husband, 
FRANCIS TYKE, M.D. 


N.B. I append M.D. to remind you of 
my professional status, and so quell you by 
the weight of my advice. 


Lucy examined the photograph of Mr. 
Durham with a double curiosity, for he was 
Mr. Hartley’s father-in-law as well as Jane’s 
presumptive suitor. She looked, and saw a 
face not badly featured, but vulgar in expression ; 
Befeute- not amiss, but ill at. ease in) its 
studied attitude and superfine clothes. As- 
suredly it was not George Durham, but the 


64 COMMONPLACE. 


master of Orpingham Place who possessed at- 
tractions for Jane; and Lucy felt, for a sister 
who could be thus attracted, the sting of a 
humiliation such as her own baseless hopes 
had never cost her. 

Each of her correspondents was answered 
with judicious variation in the turn of the 
sentences. To Jane she wrote dryly, return- 
ing Mr. Durham’s portrait wrapped in a. ten- 
pound note; an arrangement which, in her 
eyes, showed a symbolic appropriateness, lost 
for the moment on her sister. Catherine she 
answered far more affectionately, begging her 
on no account to curtail a visit which might 
be of importance to Jane’s prospects; and on 
the flap of the envelope, she added compli- 
ments to Mr. Tresham. 


65 


CHAPTER: IX. 


Mr. TRESHAM had loved Lucy Charlmont 
sincerely, and until she refused him had 
entertained a good hope of success. Even at 
the moment of refusal she avowed the liking 
for him which all through their acquaintance 
had been obvious; and then, and not till then, 
it dawned upon him that her indifference 
towards himself had its root in preference for 
another. But he was far too honourable a 
man either to betray or to aim at verifying his 
suspicion; and though he continued to visit at 
Dr. Tyke’s, where Alan Hartley was so often to 
be seen idling away time under the comfortable 
conviction that he was doing no harm to him- 
self or to any one else, it was neither at once, 
nor of set purpose, that Arthur Tresham pene- 
trated Lucy’s secret. Alan and himself had been 
F 


66 COMMONPLACE. 


College friends ; he understood him thoroughly ; 
his ready good-nature, which seemed to make 
every one a principal person in his regard ; 
his open hand that liked spending; his want 
of deep or definite purpose; his unconcern 
as to possible consequences. Then Lucy,—in 
whom Mr. Tresham had been on one point 
wofully mistaken,—she was so composed and 
so cordial to all her friends; there was about 
her such womanly sweetness, such unpretentious, 
dignified reserve towards all: her face would 
light up so brightly when he, or any other, 
spoke what interested her, not seldom, certainly, 
when fe spoke:—even after a sort of clue 
had come into his hands, it was some time 
before he felt sure of any difference between 
her manner to Alan and to others. When 
the conviction forced itself upon him, he grieved 
more for her than for himself; he knew his 
friend too intimately to mistake his pleasure 
in being amused for any anxiety to make 
himself beloved; he knew about Alan much 
that Lucy did not and could not guess, and 
from the beginning inferred the end. 


COMMONPLACE. ° 67 


In the middle of that London season 
Catherine and Lucy returned to Brompton-on- 
Sea; and before August had started the main 
stream of tourists from England to the con- 
tinent, Mr. Tresham packed up his knapsack, 
and, staff in hand, set off on a solitary ex- 
pedition, of undetermined length, to the East. 
He was neither a rich nor a poor man; had 
been called to the bar, but without pursuing 
his profession, and was not tied to any given 
spot; he went away to recruit his spirits, 
and, having recovered them, stayed on out of 
sheer enjoyment. Yet, when one morning his 
eye lighted on the Hartley-Durham marriage 
in the ‘Times’ Supplement, home feeling stirred 
within him; and he who, twenty-four hours 
earlier, knew not whether he might not end 
his days beside the blue Bosphorus, on the 
evening of that same day had started west- 
ward. 

He felt curious, he would not own to him- 
self that he felt specially interested, to know 
Powetuey faced; and he» felt: curious; ine a 


minor degree, to inspect her successful rival. 


68 COMMONPLACE. 


With himself Lucy had not yet had a rival; 
not yet, perhaps she might one day, he re- 
peated to himself, only it had not happened 
yet. And then the sweet, dignified face rose 
before him kind and cheerful; cheerful still 
in his memory, though he guessed that now 
it must look saddened. He had never yet 
seen it with a settled expression of sadness, 


and he knew not how to picture it so. 


Mr. Drum—or Mr. Gawkins Drum, as he 
scrupulously called himself, on account of a 
certain Mr. Drum, who lived somewhere and 
went nowhere, and was held by all outsiders 
to be in his dotage— Miss Drum’s brother, 
Mr. Gawkins Drum, had for several years stood 
as a gay young bachelor of sixty. Not that, 
strictly speaking, any man (or, alas! any 
woman) can settle down at sixty and there 
remain; but at the last of a long series of 
avowed birthday parties, Mr. Drum had drunk 
his own health as being sixty that very day; 


COMMONPLACE. 69 


this was now some years ago, and still, in 
neighbourly parlance, Mr. Drum was no more 
than sixty. At sixty-something-indefinite Gaw- 
kins brought home a bride, who confessed to 
sixty; and all Brompton-on-Sea indulged in a 
laugh at their expense, till it oozed out that the 
kindly old couple had gone through all the 
hopes and disappointments of a many years’ 
engagement, begun at a reasonable age for 
such matters, and now terminated only because 
the bedridden brother, to whom the bride had 
devoted herself during an ordinary lifetime, 
had at last ended his days in peace. “Mr. 
and Mrs. Gawkins Drum forestalled their neigh- 
bours’ laugh by their own, and soon the 
laugh against them died out, and every one 
accepted their house as amongst the pleasantest 
resorts in Brompton-on-Sea. 

Miss Drum, however, felt less leniently to- 
wards her brother and sister-in-law, and de- 
liberately regarded them from a shocked point 
of view. The wedding took place at Richmond, 
where the bride resided; and the honeymoon 


came to an end whilst Lucy entertained her 


70 COMMONPLACE.’ 


old friend, during that long visit at Notting 
Hill, which promised to colour all Jane’s 
future. 

‘My dear,’ said Miss Drum to her deferential 
listener; ‘My dear, Sarah,—and Lucy felt that 
that offending Sarah could only be the bride,— 
‘Sarah shall not suffer for Gawkins’ folly and 
her own. I will not fail to visit her in her 
new home, and to notice her on all proper 
occasions, but I cannot save her from being 
ridiculous. I did not wait till I was sixty 
to make up my mind against wedlock, though 
perhaps’—and the old lady bridled—‘I also 
may have endured the preference of some in- 
fatuated man. Lucy, my dear, take an old 
woman’s advice: marry, if you mean to marry, 
before you are sixty, or else’ “remain? dike 
myself; otherwise, you make yourself simply 
ridiculous.’ 

And Lucy, smiling, assured her that she 
would either marry before sixty or not at all; 
and added, with some earnestness, that she 
did not think she should ever marry. To 


which Miss Drum answered with stateliness: 


COMMONPLACE. 71 


‘Very well; do one thing or do the other, only 
do not become ridiculous.’ 

Yet the old lady softened that evening, 
when she found herself, as it were, within the 
radius of the contemned bride. Despite her 
sixty years, and in truth she looked less than 
her age, Mrs. Gawkins Drum was a personable 
little woman, with plump red cheeks, gentle eyes, 
and hair of which the soft brown was threaded, 
but not overpowered, by grey. There was no 
affectation of youthfulness in her gown, which 
was of slate-coloured silk; nor in her cap, 
which came well on her head; nor in her 
manner to her guests, which was cordial; nor 
in her manner to her husband, which was 
affectionate, with the undemonstrative affection- 
ateness that might now have been appropriate | 
had they married forty years earlier. 

Her kiss of welcome was returned frostily 
by Miss Drum, warmly by Lucy. Mr. Drum 
at first looked a little sheepish under his sister’s 
severe salutation. Soon all were seated at tea. 

‘Do you take cream and sugar?’ asked 


the bride, looking at her new sister. 


72 COMMONPLACE. 


‘No sugar, I thank you, was the formal 
reply. ‘And it will be better, Sarah, that 
you should call me Elizabeth. Though I am 
an old woman your years do not render it 
unsuitable, and I wish to be sisterly.’ 

‘Thank you, dear Elizabeth,’ answered Mrs. 
Gawkins, cheerily; ‘I hope, indeed, we shall 
be sisterly. It would be sad times with me 
if I found I had brought coldness into my 
new home.’ | 

But Miss Drum would not thaw yet. ‘Yes, 
I have always maintained, and I maintain 
still, that there must be faults on both sides 
if a marriage, if any marriage whatever, in- 
troduces dissension into a family circle. And 
I will do my part, Sarah.’ . 

‘Yes, indeed; but Sarah knew not what 
more to Say. 

Mr. Drum struck in,—‘Lucy, my dear’— 
she had been .a little girl, perched sion. 
knee when her father asked him years before 
to be trustee,—‘Lucy, my dear, you’re not 
in full bloom. Look at my old lady, and 
guess: what’s a recipe for roses ?’ 


COMMONPLACE. 73 


‘For shame, Gawkins!’ cried both old 
ladies; one with a smile, the other with a 
frown. 

Still, as the evening wore on, Miss Drum 
slowly thawed. Having, as it were once for 
all, placed her hosts in the position of culprits 
at the moral bar, having sat in judgment on 
them, and convicted them in the ears of all 
men (represented by Lucy), she admitted them 
to mercy, and dismissed them with a qualified 
pardon. What most softened her towards the 
offending couple’ was their unequivocal pro- 
fession of rheumatism. When she unbendingly 
declined to remain seated at the supper-table 
one minute beyond half-past ten, she alleged 
rheumatism as her impelling motive; and Gaw- 
kins and Sarah immediately proclaimed their 
own rheumatic experience and sympathies. As 
Miss Drum observed to Lucy on their way 
home, ‘Old people don’t confess to rheumatism 
if they wish to appear young.’ 

Thus the feud subsided, though Miss Drum 
to the end of her life occasionally spoke of 


her sister-in-law as ‘that poor silly thing,’ and 


74 COMMONPLACE. 


of her brother as of one who should have 
known better. 

Whilst, on her side, Mrs. Gawkins Drum 
remarked to her husband, ‘What a very old- 
looking woman that Miss Charlmont is, if 
she’s not thirty, as you say. I never saw 


such an old, faded-looking woman of her age.’ 


75 


CHADTER X, 


PARTIES ran high at Kensington and Notting 
Hill. Stella stood up for charades, Jane for 
tableaux. Mr. Hartley naturally sided with 
his wife, Miss Charlmont held back from vol- 
unteering any opinion, Mrs. Tyke voted for 
the last speaker, Dr. Tyke ridiculed each al- 
ternative ; at last Mr. Durham ingeniously threw 
his weight into both scales, and won for both 
parties a partial triumph. ‘Why not, asked 
he,—‘ why not let Pug speak, and Miss Jane 
be silent ?’ 

This pacific suggestion once adopted, Dr. 
Tyke proposed that a charade word should 
be fixed upon, and performed by speech or 
spectacle, as might suit the rival stars; for 
instance, Love-apple. 

But who was to be Love? 


76 COMMONPLACE. 


Everybody agreed in rejecting little boys; 
and Jane, when directly appealed to, refused 
to represent the Mother of love and laughter ; 
‘for,’ as she truly observed, ‘that would not be 
Love, after all” Mr. Durham, looking laboriously 
gallant, aimed at saying something neat and 
pointed; he failed, yet Jane beamed a smile 
upon his failure. Then Dr. Tyke proposed a 
plaster Cupid; this, after some disputing, was 
adopted, with vague accessories of processional 
Greek girls, to be definitely worked out after- 
wards. For ‘Apple’ Alan suggested Paris 
and the rival goddesses, volunteering himself 
as Paris: Jane should be Venus, and Catherine 
would make a capital Juno. Jane accepted 
her own part as a matter of course, but 
doubted about her sister. ‘Yes,’ put in Miss 
Charlmont, decisively, ‘I will be Juno, or any- 
thing else which will help us forward a little.’ 
So that was settled; but who should be 
Minerva? Stella declined to figure as the 
patroness of wisdom, and Jane drily observed, 
that they ought all to be tall, or all to be 


short, in her idea. At last a handsome, not 


COMMONPLACE. Tf 


too handsome, friend, Lady Everett, was thought 
of to take the part. The last scene Dr. Tyke 
protested he should settle himself with Stella, 
and not be worried any more about it. So 
those two went into committee together, and 
Alan edged in ere long for consultation; finally, 
Miss Charlmont was appealed to, and the 
matter was arranged amongst them without 
being divulged to the rest. 

But all was peace and plenty, smiles and 
wax-candles, at Kensington, when at last the 
evening came for the performance. Mrs. Hart- 
ley’s drawing-rooms being much more spacious 
than Mrs. Tyke’s, had been chosen for con- 
venience, and about two hundred guests as- 
sembled to hear Stella declaim and see Jane 
attitudinize, as either faction expressed it. Good- 
natured Mrs. Tyke played the hostess, whilst 
Mrs. Hartley remained occult in the green- 
room. Dr. Tyke was manager and prompter. 
Mr. Durham, vice Paris- Hartley, welcomed 
people in a cordial, fussy manner, apologising 
for the smallness of London rooms, and re- 


eretfully alluding to the vast scale of Orpingham 


78 COMMONPLACE. 


Place, ‘where a man can be civil to his friends 
without treading on their toes or their tails— 
ha! ha!’ 

But there is a limit to all things, even 
fussiness has an end. At last every one 
worth waiting for had arrived, been received, 
been refreshed. Orpingham Place died out 
of the conversation. People exchanged common- 
places, and took their seats; having taken 
their seats they exchanged more common- 
places. ‘What’s the word ?’—‘ It’s such a bore 
guessing: I never guess anything.‘ People 
ought to tell the word beforehand.’—‘ What a 
horrible man! Is that Mr. Hartley ?}—‘No, 
old Durham ; backbone Durham.’—‘ Why back- 
bone ?’—‘ Don’t know; hear him called so.’— 
‘Isn't there a Beauty somewhere ?’—‘ Don't 
know; there’s the Beast,—and the hackneyed 
joke received the tribute of a hackneyed laugh. 

The manager’s bell rang, the curtain drew up. 

A plaster cast of Cupid, with fillet, bow, 
and quiver, on an upholstery pedestal, stood 
revealed. Music, commencing behind the scenes, 


approached; a file of English-Grecian maidens, 


COMMONPLACE. 79 


singing and carrying garlands, passed across 
the stage towards a pasteboard temple, pre- 
sumably their desired goal, although they glanced 
at their audience, and seemed very independent 
of Cupid on his pedestal. There were only 
six young ladies; but they moved slowly, with 
a tolerable space interposed between each and 
each, thus producing a _ processional effect. 
They sang, in time and in tune, words by 
Dr. Tyke; music (not in harmony, but in uni- 
son, to ensure correct execution) by Arthur 
Tresham :— 


‘Love hath a name of Death: 
He gives a breath 
And takes away. 
Lo we, beneath his sway, 
Grow like a flower ; 
To bloom an hour, 
To droop a day, 
And fade away.’ 


The first Anglo-Greek had been chosen 
for her straight nose, the last for her elegant 
foot; the intermediate four, possessing good 


voices, bore the burden of the singing. They 


80 COMMONPLACE. 


all moved and sang with self-complacent ease, 
but without much dramatic sentiment, except 
the plainest of the six, who assumed an air 
of languishment. 

Some one suggested ‘cupid-ditty,’ but with- 
out universal acceptance. Some one else, on 
no obvious grounds, hazarded ‘Bore, Wild 
Boar: a remark which stung Dr. Tyke, as 
playwright, into retorting, ‘Boreas,’ 

The second scene was dumb show. Alan 
Hartley as Paris, looking very handsome in a 
tunic and sandals, and flanked by the largest- 
sized, woolly toy lambs, sat, apple in hand, 
awaiting the rival goddesses. A flourish of 
trumpets announced the entrance of Miss Charl- 
mont, a stately crowned Juno, robed in amber- 
coloured cashmere, and leading in a leash a 
peacock, with train displayed, and ingeniously 
mounted on noiseless wheels. She swept 
grandly in, and held out one arm, with a studied 
gesture, for the apple; which, doubtless, would 
have been handed to her then and there, had 
not warning notes on a harp ushered in Lady 
Everett: a modest, sensible-looking Minerva, 


COMMONPLACE. SI 


robed and stockinged in blue, with a funny 
Athenian owl perched on her shoulder, and 
a becoming helmet on her head. Paris hesi- 
tated visibly, and seemed debating whether or 
not to split the apple and the difference to- 
gether, when a hubbub, as of birds singing, 
chirping, calling, cleverly imitated by Dr. Tyke 
and Stella on water-whistles, heralded the ap- 
proach of Venus. In she came, beautiful Jane 
Charlmont, with a steady, gliding step, her 
eyes kindling with victory, both her small 
hands outstretched for the apple so indisputably 
hers, her lips parted in a triumphant smile. 
Her long, white robe flowed classically to the 
floor; two doves, seeming to nestle in her 
hair, billed and almost cooed; but her face 
eclipsed all beside it; and when Paris, on 
one knee, deposited the apple within her slim, 
white fingers, Juno forgot to look indignant 
and Minerva scornful. 

After this the final scene fell dead and flat. 
In vain did Stella whisk about as the most 
coquettish of market-girls of an undefined epoch 
and country, balancing a fruit~basket on her 

G 


82 COMMONPLACE. 


head, and crying, ‘Grapes, melons, peaches, 
love-apples,’ with the most natural inflections. 
In vain did Arthur Tresham beat down the 
price of peaches, and Alan Hartley bid for 
love-apples:—Jane had attained one of her 
objects, and eclipsed her little friend for that 
evening. 

The corps dramatique was to sit down to 
supper in costume; a point arranged ostensibly 
for convenience, secretly it may be for vanity’s 
sake: only Stella laid her fruit-basket aside, 
and Miss Charlmont released her peacock. 
Lady Everett continued to wear the helmet, 
which did not conceal her magnificent black 
hair (she had been a Miss Moss before marriage, 
Clara Lyon Moss), and Jane retained her pair 
of doves. 

But during the winding up of the charade, 
more of moment had occurred off the stage than 
upon it. Jane, her part over, left the other 
performers to their own devices, and quietly 
made her way into a conservatory which opened 
out of the room devoted for that evening to 
cloaks and hoods. If she expected to be fol- 


COMMONPLACE. 83 


lowed she was not disappointed. <A heavy step, 
and an embarrassed clearance of throat, an- 
nounced Mr. Durham. He bustled up to her, 
where she sat fanning herself and showing white 
and brilliant against a background of flowers 
and leaves, whilst he looked at once sheepish 
and pompous, awkward and self-satisfied; not 
a lady’s man assuredly. 

‘ Hem—haw—Miss Jane, you surpassed your- 
self. I shall always think of you now as Venus ; 
I shall, indeed. Jane smiled benignantly. ‘Poor 
Pug’s nose is quite out of joint; it is, indeed. 
But the chit has got a husband, and can snap 
her fingers at all of us.” Jane surveyed him 
with grave interrogation, then cast down her 
lustrous eyes, and slightly turned her shoulder 
in his direction. Abashed, he resumed: ‘But 


really, Miss Jane, now wasn’t Venus a married 





lady too? and couldn’t we 2> = -Janesinter= 
rupted him: ‘Pray give me your arm, Mr. 
Durham ;’ she rose: ‘let us go back to the 
company. I don’t know what you are talking 
about, unless you mean to be rude and very 


unkind :’ the voice broke, the large, clear eyes 


84. COMMONPLACE. 


softened to tears; she drew back as he drew 
nearer. Then Mr. Durham, ill-bred, but neither 
scheming nor cold-hearted, pompous and fussy, 
but a not ungenerous man for all that,—then 
Mr. Durham spoke: ‘Don’t draw back from me, 
Miss Jane, but take my arm for once to lead 
you back to the company, and take my hand 
for good. For I love and admire you, Miss 
Jane; and if you will take an oldish man for 
your husband, you shall never want for money 
or for pleasure while my name is good in the 
City.’ 

Thus in one evening Jane Charlmont attained 
both her objects. 


Supper was a very gay meal, as brilliant as 
lights, glass, and plate could make it. People 
were pleased with the night’s entertainment, 
with themselves, and with each other. Mr. 
Durham, with an obtrusive air of festivity, sat 
down beside Jane, and begged his neighbours 
not to inconvenience themselves, as they did 
not mind squeezing. Jane coloured, but judged 


it too early to frown. Mr. Durham, being some- 


COMMONPLACE. 85 


what old-fashioned, proposed healths: the fair 
actresses were toasted, the Anglo-Greeks in a 
bevy, the distinguished stars one by one. Mr. 
Tresham returned thanks for the processional 
six; Dr. Tyke for Miss Charlmont, Sir James 
Everett and Mr. Hartley for their respective 
wives. 

Then Jane’s health was drunk: who would 
rise to return thanks? Mr. Durham rose: 
‘Hem—haw—’ said he: ‘haw—hem—ladies 
and gentlemen, allow me to return thanks for 
the Venus of the evening—I mean for the Venus 
altogether, whose health you have done me the 
honour to drink’—knowing smiles circled round 
the table. ‘Done us, I should say: not that I 
unsay what I said; quite the contrary, and I’m 
not ashamed to have said it. I will only say 
one word more in thanking you for the honour 
you have done her and all of us: the cham- 
pagne corks pop, and suggest popping ; but after 
popping mum ’s the word. Ladies and gentle-_ 
men, my very good friends, I drink your very 
good health.’ 

And the master of Orpingham Place sat down. 


86 


CHAPTER XI. 


Lucy received the news of Jane’s engagement 
with genuine vexation, and then grew vexed 
with herself for feeling vexed. Conscience took 
alarm, and pronounced that envy and pride had 
a share in her vexation. Self retorted: It is 
not envy to see that Jane is mercenary, nor 
pride to dislike vulgarity. Conscience insisted : 
-It is envy to be annoyed by Jane’s getting 
married before you, and it is pride to brand 
Mr. Durham as vulgar, and then taboo him 
as beyond the pale. Self pleaded: No one 
likes growing old and being made to feel it; 
and who would not deprecate a connection who 
will put one out of countenance at every turn ? 
But Conscience secured the last word: If you 
were younger than Jane, you would make more 


allowances for her; and if Mr. Durham were 


COMMONPLACE. 87 


engaged to any one except your sister, you 
would think it fair not to condemn him as 
destitute of every virtue because he is under- 
bred. 

Thus did Conscience get the better of Self. 
And Lucy gulped down dignity and disappoint- 
ment together when, in reply to Miss Drum’s, 
‘My dear, I hope your sisters are well, and 
enjoying their little gaieties,’ she said, cheer- 
fully : ‘Now, really, you should give me some- 
thing for such wonderful news: Jane is engaged 
to be married.’ 

There was nothing Miss Drum relished more 
than a wedding ‘ between persons suited to each 
other, and not ridiculous on the score of age 
and appearance, as she would herself pointedly 
have defined it. Now Jane was obviously young 
enough and pretty enough to become a bride; 
so Miss Drum was delighted, and full of interest 
and of inquiries, which Lucy found it rather 
difficult to answer satisfactorily. 

‘And who is the favoured gentleman, my 
dear ?’ 

‘Mr. Durham, of Orpingham Place, in Glou- 


88 COMMONPLACE. 


cestershire. Very rich it seems, and a widower. 
His only daughter, Lucy hurried on with an 
imperceptible effort, ‘married that Mr. Hartley 
Catherine and I used to meet so often at Notting 
/ Hill. She was thought to be a great heiress; 
but I suppose this will make some difference.’ 

‘Then he is rather old for Jane ?’ 

‘He is not yet fifty it seems, though of course 
that is full old. By what he says, Orpingham 
Place must be a very fine country-seat; and 
Jane appears cut out for wealth and pleasure, 
she has such a power of enjoying herself;’ and 
Lucy paused. 

Miss Drum, dropping the point of age, re- 
sumed: ‘Now what Durham will this be, my 
dear? I used to know a Sir Marcus Durham— 
a gay, hunting Baronet. He was of a north- 
country family; but this may be a branch of 
the same stock. He married an Earl’s daughter, 
Lady Mary; and she used to take precedence, 
let who would be in the room, which was not 
thought to be in very good taste when the 
dowager Lady Durham was present. Still an 


Earl’s daughter ought to understand good breed- 


COMMONPLACE. 89 


ing, and that was how she acted ; I do not wish 
to express any opinion. Perhaps Mr. Durham 
may have a. chance of the Baronetcy, for Sir 
Marcus left no children, but was succeeded by 
a bachelor brother; and then Jane will be “my 
lady” some day.’ 

eo, feplied) Lucy; ‘I don't think’ that 
likely. Mr. Durham is enormously wealthy, by 
what I hear; but not of a county family. He 
made his fortune in the City.’ 

Miss Drum persisted: ‘The cadets of even 
noble families have made money by commerce 
over and over again. It is no disgrace to make 
a fortune; and I see no reason why Mr. Durham 
should not be a baronet some day. Many a 
City man has been as fine a gentleman as any 
idler at court. Very likely Mr. Durham is an 
elegant man of talent, and well connected; if 
so, a fortune is no drawback, and the question 
of age may be left to the lady’s decision.’ 

Lucy said no more: only she foresaw and 
shrank from that approaching day of undeceiving 
which should bring Mr. Durham to Brompton- 


on-Sea. 


go COMMONPLACE. 


Once set off on the subject of family, there 
was no stopping Miss Drum, who, having had 
no proveable great-grandfather, was sensitive on 
the score of pedigree. 

‘You might not suppose it now, Lucy, but 
it is well known that our family name of Drum, 
though less euphonious than that of Durham, 
is in fact the same. I made the observation 
once to Sir Marcus, and he laughed with plea- 
sure, and often afterwards addressed me as 
cousin. Lady Mary did not like the suggestion ; 
but no one’s fancies can alter a fact:’ and the 
old lady looked stately, and as if the Drum- 
Durham theory had been adopted and em- 
blazoned by the College of Heralds; whereas, 
in truth, no one besides herself, not even the 


easy-tempered Gawkins, held it. 


Meanwhile, all went merrily and smoothly 
at Notting Hill. As Jane had said, she was 
old enough to know her own mind, and appar- 
ently she knew it. When Mr. Durham presented 
her with a set of fine diamonds, she dropped 


naturally into calling him George; and when 


COMMONPLACE. OI 


he pressed her to name the day, she answered, 
with an assumption of girlishness, that he must 
talk over all those dreadful things with Catherine. 

To Miss Charlmont he had already opened 
his mind on the subject of settlements: Jane 
should have everything handsome and ample, 
but Pug must not lose her fortune either. This 
Catherine, deeming it right and reasonable, 
undertook to explain to Jane. Jane sulked a 
little to her sister, but displayed only a smiling 
aspect to her lover, feeling in her secret heart 
that her own nest was being particularly well 
feathered: for not only were Mr. Durham’s new 
marriage settlements most liberal, in spite of 
Stella’s prospective twenty thousand pounds on 
coming of age, and twenty thousand at her 
father’s demise; but Catherine, of her own 
accord, provided that at her death all her share 
of their father’s property should descend to 
Jane, for her own separate use, and at her own 
absolute disposal. The younger sister, indeed, 
observed with safe generosity: ‘Suppose you 
should marry, too, some day?’ But Catherine, 


grateful for any gleam of unselfishness in her 


92 _ COMMONPLACE. 


favourite sister, answered warmly and decisively : 
‘I never meant to marry, and I always meant- 
what fortune I had to be yours at last: only, 
dear, do not again think hardly of our poor 
father’s oversight.’ 

Mr. Durham was urgent to have the wedding- 
day fixed, and Jane reluctant merely and barely 
for form’s sake. A day in August was named, 
and the honeymoon pre-devoted to Paris and 
Switzerland. Then Miss Charlmont pronounced 
it time to return home; and was resolute that 
the wedding should take place at Brompton- 
on-Sea, not at Notting Hill as the hospitable 
Tykes proposed. 

Jane was now nothing loth to quit town ; 
Mr. Durham unwilling to lose her, yet willing as 
recognising the step for an unavoidable pre- 
liminary. Nevertheless, he felt hurt at Jane’s 
indifference to the short separation; whilst Jane, 
in her turn, felt worried at his expecting any 
show of sentiment from her, though, having once 
fathomed his feelings, she kept the worry to 
herself and produced the sentiment. He looked 


genuinely concerned when they parted at London- 


COMMONPLACE. 93 


Bridge Station ; but Jane never in her life had 
experienced a greater relief than now, when the 
starting train left him behind on the platform. 
A few more days, and it would be too late to 
leave him behind: but she consoled herself by 
reflecting that without him she might despair 
of ever seeing Paris; Switzerland was secondary 
in her eyes. 

Miss Drum had often set as a copy, ‘ Manners 
make the Man,’ and explained to her deferential 
pupils how in that particular phrase ‘ Man’ in- 
cludes ‘Woman. Catherine in later life reflected 
that ‘Morals make the Man’ (including Woman) 
conveys a not inferior truth. Jane might have 
modified the sentence a trifle further, in employ- 
ing it as an M copy, and have written, ‘Money 
makes the Man.’ 


94 


CHAPTERGATE 


Lucy welcomed her sisters home, after an 
absence of unprecedented duration, with warm- 
hearted pleasure, but Jane went far to ex- 
tinguish the feeling. 

In the heyday of her blooming youth and 
satisfaction, she was not likely to acquire any 
tender tact lacking at other times; and an 
elder sister, mentally set down in her catalogue 
of old maids, was fair game. 

‘Why, Lucy,’ she cried, as they sat together 
the first evening, herself the only idler of the 
three, ‘you look as old as George, and about 
as lively: Miss Drum must be catching.’ 

‘Do leave Miss Drum alone,’ Lucy an- 
swered, speaking hastily from a double annoy- 
ance. ‘And if,—she forced a laugh,—‘surely 
if my looks recall George to your mind they 
ought to please you.’ 


COMMONPLACE. 95 


But Jane was incorrigible. ‘My dear, George 
is Orpingham Place, and Orpingham Place is 
George ; but your looks suggest some distinction 
between the two. Only think, he expected 
me to grow dismal at leaving him _ behind, 
and I did positively see his red pockethandker- 
chief fluttering in the breeze as we screamed 
out of the station. And he actually flattered 
himself I should not go out much till the 
wedding is over; catch me staying at home 
if I can help it! By-the-bye, did you mean a 
joke by wrapping his photograph up in the ten- 
pound note? it struck me afterwards as really 
neat in its way.’ 

ow lane! @ put in Catherine, and more 
she might have added in reproof; but at that 
instant the door opened, and Mr. Ballantyne 
was announced. 

Mr. Ballantyne was a solicitor, related to 
Mrs. Gawkins Drum, and taken into partner- 
ship by that lady’s husband shortly before 
their marriage. Judging by looks, Mr. Bal- 
lantyne might have been own nephew to Miss 
Drum rather than to her sister-in-law, so neutral 


96 COMMONPLACE. 


was he in aspect and manner; if ever any 
one liked him at first sight, it was because 
there was nothing on the surface to stir a 
contrary feeling; and if any one volunteered 
a confidence to him, it was justified by his 
habitual taciturnity, which suggested a me- 
chanical aptitude at keeping a secret; yet, 
however appearances were against him, he was 
a shrewd man of business, and not deficient 
in determination of character. 

He arrived by appointment to show Miss 
Charlmont the draft of her settlement on her 
sister, and take, if need be, further instructions. 
She was one to see with her own eyes rather 
than merely to hear with her own ears, and, 
therefore, retired with the papers to the so- 
litude of her own room, leaving her sisters 
to entertain the visitor. 

Thus left, Mr. Ballantyne took a respectful 
look at Jane, whose good luck in securing the 
master of Orpingham Place he considered rare 
indeed. - Looking ‘at her ‘he “arrived ate. 
conclusion that Mr. Durham also had _ been 


lucky. Jane just glanced at Mr. Ballantyne, 


COMMONPLACE. 97 


mentally appraising him as a nonentity; but 
in that glance she saw his admiration; ad- 
miration always propitiated her, and she deigned 
to be gracious. 

Various maiden ladies in Brompton-on-Sea 
would have been gracious to Mr. Ballantyne 
from a different motive. Though still a youngish 
man he was a widower, already in easy cir- 
cumstances, and with a prospect of growing 
rich. His regard for his late wife’s memory 
was most decorous, but not such as to keep 
him inconsolable; and his only child, Frank, 
being no more than five years old and healthy, 
need scarcely be viewed as a domestic draw- 
back ; indeed, certain spinsters treated’ the 
boy with a somewhat demonstrative affection, 
but these ladies were obviously not in their 
teens. 

Mr. Ballantyne meanwhile, though mildly 
courteous to all, had not singled out any one for 
avowed preference. Possibly he liked Miss Edith 
Sims, a doctor’s daughter, a bold equestrian, 
a first-rate croquet player; she hoped so sin- 
cerely, for she had unbecoming carroty hair 

H 


98 COMMONPLACE. 


and freckles ; possibly he liked Lucy Charlmont, 
but she had never given the chance a thought. 
Of Miss Charlmont, whom he had seen twice, 
and both times exclusively on business, he 
stood in perceptible awe. ; 

Catherine, finding nothing to object to in 
the draft, returned it to Mr. Ballantyne with 
her full assent. Then tea was brought in, 
and Mr. Ballantyne was asked to stay. His 
aptitude for carrying cups and plates, recog- 
nised and admired in other circles, here re- 
mained in abeyance; Miss Charlmont adhering 
to the old fashion of people sitting round the 
tea-table at tea no less formally than round 
the dining-table at dinner. 

A plan for a picnic having been set on 
foot by the Gawkins Drums, Lucy had been 
invited, and had accepted before Jane’s en- 
gagement was announced. So now Mr. Bal- 
lantyne mentioned the picnic, taking for granted 
that Lucy would join, and empowered by the 
projectors to ask her sisters also; Jane brightened 
at the proposal, being secretly charmed at a 


prospect of appearing amongst her familiar 


COMMONPLACE. 99 


associates as mistress elect of Orpingham Place ; 
but Catherine demurred,— 

‘Thank you, Mr. Ballantyne; I will call 
myself and thank Mrs. Drum, but Mr. Durham 
might object, and I will stay at home with 
my sister. No doubt we shall find future 
opportunities of all meeting.’ 

‘Dear me!’ cried Jane; ‘Mr. Durham isn’t 
Bluebeard; or, if he is, I had better get a 
little fun first. My compliments, please, and 
I shall be too glad to come.’ 

‘Oh, Jane!’ remonstrated Miss Charlmont ; 
but it was a hopeless remonstrance. Jane, once 
bent on amusement, was not to be deterred 
by doubtful questions of propriety; and the 
elder sister, mortified, but more anxious for 
the offender’s credit than for her own dignity, 
changed her mind perforce, and, with a sigh, 
accepted the invitation. If Jane was deter- 
mined to go, she had better go under a middle- 
aged sister’s eye; but the party promised 
to be a large one, including various strange 
gentlemen, and Catherine honestly judged it 
objectionable. 


100 COMMONPLACE. 


Jane, however, was overflowing with glee, 
and questioned Mr. Ballantyne energetically as 
to who were coming. When he was gone 
she held forth to her sisters,— 

‘That hideous Edith Sims, of course she 
will ride over on Brunette, to show her figure 
and her bridle hand. I shall wear pink, and 
sit next her to bring out her freckles. I’ve 
not forgotten her telling people I had no 
fortune. Don’t you see she’s trying to hook 
Mr. Ballantyne? you heard him say she has 
been consulting him about something or other. 
Let’s drive Mr. Ballantyne over in our carriage, 
and the baby can perch on the box.’ 

Lucy said, ‘ Nonsense, Jane; Mr. Ballantyne | 
has his own dog-cart, and he is tiresome enough 
without keeping him all to ourselves.’ 

And Catherine added, this time peremp- 
torily, ‘My dear, that is not to be thought 
of; I could not justify it to Mr. Durham. 
Either you will drive over with Lucy and me, 
and any other person I may select, or you 
must find a carriage for yourself, as I shall 


not go to the picnic.’ 


IOI 


CHAPTER XII 


THE environs of Brompton-on-Sea were rich in 
spots adapted to picnics, and the Gawkins Drums 
had chosen the very prettiest of these eligible 
spots. Rocky Drumble, a green glen of the 
floweriest, but with fragments of rock showing 
here and there, possessed an echo point and a 
dripping well: it was, moreover, accredited by 
popular tradition with a love-legend, and, on 
the same authority, with a ghost for moonlight 
nights. Rocky Drumble was threaded from 
end to end by a stream which nourished water- 
cresses ; at one season its banks produced wild 
strawberries, at another nuts, sometimes mush- 
rooms. All the year round the glen was fre- 
quented by song-birds; not seldom a squirrel 
~would scamper up a tree, or a rabbit sit upright 
on the turf, winking his nose. Rocky Drumble on 


102 COMMONPLACE. 


a sunny summer-day was a bower of cool shade, 
and of a silence heightened, not broken, by 
sounds of birds and of water, the stream at hand, 
the sea not far off; a bower of sun-chequered 
shade, breaths of wind every moment shifting 
the shadows, and the sun making its way in, 
now here, now there, with an endless, monoto- 
nous changeableness. 

On such a day the Charlmonts drove to their 
rendezvous in Rocky Drumble. The carriage 
held four inside; Miss Drum and Catherine 
sitting forward, with Lucy and Jane opposite. 
On the box beside the driver perched little 
Frank Ballantyne, very chatty and merry at 
first; but to be taken inside and let fall asleep 
when, as was foreseen, he should grow tired. 
The child had set his heart on going to the pic- 
nic, and good Miss Drum had promised to take 
care of him—Miss Drum nominally, Lucy by 
secret understanding, for the relief of her old 
friend. 

Miss Drum wore a drawn silk bonnet, which 
had much in common with the awning of a 


bathing-machine. Catherine surmounted her 


COMMONPLACE. 103 


inevitable cap by a broad-brimmed brown straw 
hat. Lucy wore a similar hat without any cap 
under it, but looked, in fact, the elder of the 
two. Jane, who never sacrificed complexion to 
fashion, also appeared in a shady hat, dove- 
coloured, trimmed with green leaves, under which 
she produced a sort of apple-blossom effect, in 
a cloud of pink muslin over white, and white 
appliquée again over the pink. Catherine had 
wished her to dress soberly, but Jane had no 
notion of obscuring her beauties. She had bar- 
gained with Mr. Durham that he was not to 
come down to Brompton-on-Sea till the after- 
noon before the wedding; and when he looked 
hurt at her urgency, had assumed an air at once 
affectionate and reserved, assuring him that this 
course seemed to her due to the delicacy of their 
mutual relations. Five days were still wanting 
to the wedding-day, George was not yet inalien- 
ably at her elbow, and no moment could appear 
more favourable for enjoyment. Surely if a 
skeleton promised to preside at the next ban- 
quet, this present feast was all the more to be 
relished : for though, according to Jane’s defini- 


104 COMMONPLACE. 


tion, George was Orpingham Place, she would - 
certainly have entered upon Orpingham Place 
with added zest had it not entailed George. 

Miss Charlmont had delayed starting till the 
very last moment, not wishing to make more of 
the picnic than could be helped ; and when she 
with her party reached the Drumble, they found 
their friends already on the spot. The last- 
comers were welcomed with a good deal of 
friendly bustle, and half-a-dozen gentlemen, in 
scarcely more than as many minutes, were pre- 
sented to Jane by genial little Mrs. Drum, who 
had never seen her before, and was charmed at 
first sight. Jane, happily for Catherine’s peace 
of mind, assumed an air of dignity in unison 
with her distinguished prospects: she was gra- 
cious rather than coquettish—gracious to all, 
but flattering to none; a change from former 
days, when her manner used to savour of coaxing. 
Edith Sims had ridden over on Brunette, and 
Jane, keeping her word as to sitting next her, 
produced the desired effect. 

The Charlmonts coming late, every one was 


ready for luncheon on their arrival, and no 


COMMONPLACE. 105 


strolling was permitted before the meal. As to 
the luncheon, it included everything usual and 
nothing unusual, and most of the company 
consuming it displayed fine, healthy appetites. 
Great attention was paid to Jane, who was be- 
yond all comparison the best-looking woman 
present ; whilst two or three individuals made 
mistakes between Catherine and Lucy, as to 
which was Miss Charlmont. 

Poor Lucy! she had seldom felt more heavy- 
hearted than now, as she sat talking and laugh- 
ing. She felt. herself getting more and more 
worn-looking as she talked and laughed on, 
getting visibly older and more faded. How she 
wished that Frank, who had fallen asleep on a 
plaid after stuffing unknown sweets into his 
system—how she wished that Frank would 
wake and become troublesome, to give her some 
occupation less intolerable than ‘grinning and 
bearing !’ 

Luncheon over, the party broke up, splitting 
into twos and threes, and scattering themselves 
here and there through the Drumble. Miss 
Charlmont attaching herself doggedly to Jane, 


106 COMMONPLACE. 


found herself clambering up and down banks and 
stony excrescences in company with a very young 
Viscount and his tutor: as she clambered exas- 
peration waxed within her at the futility of the 
young men’s conversation and the complacency | 
of Jane’s rejoinders ; certainly, had any one been 
studying Catherine’s face (which nobody was), he 
would have beheld an unwonted aspect at a picnic. 

Miss Drum, ostentatiously aged because in 
company with her brother and his bride, had 
chosen before luncheon was well over to wrap 
herself up very warmly, and ensconce herself for 
an avowed nap inside one of the flys. ‘You 
can call me for tea,’ she observed to Lucy ; ‘and 
when Frank tires you, you can leave him in the 
carriage with me.’ But Frank was Lucy’s one 
resource : minding him served as an excuse for 
not joining Mr. Drum, who joked, or Mr. Ballan- 
tyne, who covertly stared at her, or Edith Sims, 
who lingering near Mr. Ballantyne talked of 
horses, or any other person whose conversation 
was more tedious than silence. 

When Frank woke, he recollected that nurse 


had told him strawberries grew in the Drumble; 


COMMONPLACE. 107 


a fact grasped by him without the drawback of 
any particular season. Off he started in quest 
of strawberries, and Lucy zealously started in 
his wake, not deeming it necessary to undeceive 
him. The little fellow’ wandered and peered 
about diligently awhile after imaginary straw- 
berries ; failing these, he suddenly clamoured for 
a game at hide-and-seek: he would hide, and 
Lucy must not look. 

They were now among the main fragments 
of rock found in the Drumble, out of sight of 
their companions. Lucy had scarcely shut her 
eyes as desired, when a shout of delight made 
her open them still more quickly, in time to 
see Frank scampering, as fast as his short legs 
would carry him, after a scampering rabbit. He 
was running—she recollected it in an instant— 
headlong towards the stream, and was already 
some yards from her. She called after him, but 
he did not turn, only cried out some unintelli- 
gible answer in his babyish treble. Fear lent 
her speed ; she bounded after him, clearing huge 
stones and brushwood with instinctive accuracy. 


She caught at his frock—missed it—caught at 


108 COMMONPLACE. 


it again—barely grasped it—and fell, throwing 
him also down in her fall. She fell on stones 
and brambles, bruising and scratching herself 
severely: but the child was safe, and she knew 
it, before she fainted away, whilst even in fainting 
her hand remained tightly clenched on his frock. 
Frank’s frightened cries soon brought friends 
to their assistance. Lucy, still insensible, was 
lifted on to smooth turf, and then sprinkled with 
water till she came to herself. In few words, for 
she felt giddy and hysterical but was resolute 
not to give way, she accounted for the accident, 
blaming herself for having carelessly let the child 
run into danger. It was impossible for any car- 
riage to drive so far along the Drumble, so she 
had to take some one’s arm to steady her in 
walking to meet the fly. Mr. Ballantyne, as pale 
as a sheet, offered his arm ; but she preferred Mr. 
Drum’s, and leaned heavily on it for support. 
Lucy was soon safe in the fly by Miss Drum’s 
side, whose nap was brought to a sudden end, 
and who, waking scared and fidgety, was dis- 
posed to lay blame on every one impartially, 


beginning with herself, and ending, in a tempered 


COMMONPLACE. 109 


form, with Lucy. The sufferer thus disposed of, 
and packed for transmission home, the remaining 
picnickers, influenced by Mrs. Drum’s obvious 
bias, declined to linger for rustic tea or other 
pleasures, and elected then and there to return 
to their several destinations. The party mus- 
tered round the carriages ready to take their 
seats: but where were Catherine and Jane, 
Viscount and_ tutor ? Shouting was tried, 
whistling was tried, ‘Cooee’ was tried by 
amateur Australians for the nonce: all in vain. 
At last Dr. Sims stepped into the fly with Lucy, 
promising to see her safe home; Miss Drum, 
smelling-bottle in hand, sat sternly beside her; 
Frank, after undergoing a paternal box on the 
ear, was degraded from the coachman’s box to 
the back seat, opposite the old lady, who turned 
towards him the aspect as of an ogress: and 
thus the first carriage started, with Edith rein- 
ing in Brunette beside it. The others followed 
without much delay, one carriage being left for 
the truants; and its driver charged to explain, if 
possible without alarming the sisters, what had 


happened to cut short the picnic. 


IIO 


CHAPTER. iM 


THE day before the wedding Lucy announced 
that she still felt too much bruised and shaken 
to make one of the party, either at church or at 


- breakfast. . Neither sister contradicted her: 


Catherine, because she thought the excuse valid ; 
Jane, because Lucy, not having yet lost the 
traces of her accident, must have made but a 
sorry bridesmaid: and, as Jane truly observed, 
there were enough without her, for her defection 
still left a bevy of eight bridesmaids in capital 
working order. ie 
Brompton-on-Sea possessed only one hotel 
of any pretensions,—‘ The Duke’s Head,’ so 
designated in memory of that solitary Royal 
Duke who had once made brief sojourn beneath 
its roof. He found it a simple inn, bearing the 
name and sign of ‘The Three Mermaids ;’ the 


COMMONPLACE. tit 


mermaids appearing in paint as young persons, 
with yellow hair and combs, and faces of a type 
which failed to account for their uninterrupted 
self-ogling in hand-mirrors ; tails were shadowily 
indicated beneath waves of deepest blue. After 
the august visit this signboard was superseded 
by one representing the Duke as a gentleman 
of inane aspect, pointing towards nothing dis- 
coverable; and this work of art, in its turn, gave 
place to a simple inscription, ‘The Duke’s Head 
Hotel.’ 

Call it by what name you would, it was as 
snug a house of entertainment as rational man 
or reasonable beast need desire,.with odd little 
rooms opening out of larger rooms and off stair- 
cases ; the only trace now visible of the Royal 
Duke’s sojourn (beyond the bare inscription of 
his title) being Royal Sentries in coloured paste- 
board effigy, the size of life, posted on certain 
landings and at certain entrances. All the 
windowsills bore green boxes of flowering plants, 
whence a sweet smell, mostly of mignonette, 
made its way within doors. The best apart- 
ments looked into a square courtyard, turfed 


112 COMMONPLACE. 


along three sides, and frequented by pigeons ; 
and the pigeon-house, standing in a turfy corner, 
was topped by a bright silvered ball. 

The landlord of the ‘Duke’s Head, a thin, 
tallowy-complexioned man, with a manner which 
might also be described as unpleasantly oily or 
tallowy, was in a bustle that same day, and all 
his household was bustling around him: for not 
merely had the ‘Duke’s Head’ undertaken to 
furnish the Durham-Charlmont wedding-break- 
fast with richness and elegance, but the bride- 
groom elect, whom report endowed with a 
pocketful of plums, the great Mr. Durham him- 
self, with sundry fashionable friends, was coming 
down to Brompton-on-Sea by the 5.30 train, 
and would put up for one night at the ‘ Duke’s 
Head.’ The waiters donned their whitest neck- 
cloths, the waitresses their pinkest caps; the 
landlady, in crimson gown and gold chain, loomed 
like a local Mayor; the landlord shone, as it 
were, snuffed and trimmed: never, since the 
era of that actual Royal Duke, had the ‘Duke’s 
Head’ smiled such a welcome. 


Mr. Durham, stepping out of the carriage on 


COMMONPLACE. 113 


to the railway platform, and followed by Alan 
Hartley, Stella, and Arthur Tresham, indulged 
hopes that Jane might be there to meet him, 
and was disappointed. Not that the matter had 
undergone no discussion. Miss Charlmont, that 
unavoidable drive home from the picnic with a 
young Viscount and a tutor for vwzs-d-vis still 
rankling in her mind, had said, ‘ My dear, 
there would be no impropriety in our meeting 
George at the Station, and he would certainly 
be gratified. But Jane had answered, ‘ Dear me, 
sister! George will keep, and I’ve not a moment ° 
to spare; only don’t stay at home for me.’ 

So no one met Mr. Durham. But when he 
presented himself at the private house on the 
Esplanade, Jane showed herself all smiling wel- 
come, and made him quite happy by her pretty 
ways. True, she insisted on his not spending 
the evening with her; but she hinted so tenderly 
at such restrictions vanishing on the morrow, 
and so modestly at remarks people might make 
if he did stay, that he was compelled to yield 
the point and depart in great admiration of her 
reserve, though he could not help recollecting 

I 


114 COMMONPLACE. 


that his first wooing had progressed and pros- 
pered without any such amazing proprieties. 
But then the mother of Everilda Stella had seen 
the light in a second-floor back room at Gates- 
head, and had married out of a circle where 
polite forms were not in the ascendant ; whereas 
Jane Charlmont looked like a Duchess, or an 
Angel, or Queen Venus herself, and was alto- 
gether a different person. So Mr. Durham, 
discomfited, but acquiescent, retreated to the 
‘Duke’s Head,’ and there consoled himself with 
more turtle-soup and crusty old port jthan 
Dr. Tyke would have sanctioned. Unfortunately 
Dr. and Mrs. Tyke were not coming down till 
the latest train that night from London, so 
Mr. Durham gorged unrebuked. He had seen 
Lucy, and taken rather a fancy to her, in spite 
of her blemished face, and had pressed her to 
visit Orpingham Place as soon as ever he and 
Jane should have returned from the Continent. 
He preferred Lucy to Catherine, with whom he 
never felt quite at ease; she was so decided and 
self-possessed, and so much better bred than 
himself. Not that Backbone Durham admitted 


COMMONPLACE. I15 


this last point of superiority ; he did not acknow- 
ledge, but he winced under it. Lucy on her 
side had found him better than his photograph; 
and that was something. 

After tea she was lying alone on the drawing- 
room sofa in the pleasant summer twilight; 
alone, because her sisters were busy over Jane’s 
matters upstairs; alone with her own thoughts. 
She was thinking of very old days, and of days 
not so old and much more full of interest. She 
tried to think of Jane and her prospects; but 
against her will Alan Hartley’s image intruded 
itself on her reverie, and she could not banish 
it. She knew from Mr. Durham that he had 
come down for the wedding; she foresaw that 
they must meet, and shrank from the ordeal, 
even whilst she wondered how he would behave 
and how she herself should behave. Alone, 
and in the half darkness, she burned with shame- 
faced dread of her own possible weakness, and 
mortified self-love wrung tears from her eyes 
as she inwardly prayed for help. 

The door opened, the maid announced Mr. 
and Mrs. Hartley. 


116 COMMONPLACE. 


Lucy, startled, would have risen to receive 
them, but Stella was too quick for her, and 
seizing both her hands, pressed her gently 
backwards on the sofa. ‘Dear Miss Charl- 
mont, you must not make a stranger of me, 
and my husband is an old friend. Mayn't 
I call you Lucy?’ 

So this was Alan’s wife, this little, winning 
woman, still almost a child; this winning woman, 
who had won the only man Lucy ever cared 
for. It cost Lucy an effort to answer, and 
to make her welcome by her name of Stella. 

_ Then Alan came forward and shook hands, 
looking cordial and handsome, with that kind 
tone of voice and tenderness of manner which 
had deceived poor Lucy once, but must never 
deceive her again. He began talking of their 
pleasant acquaintanceship in days of yore, of 
amusements they had shared, of things done 
together, and things spoken and not forgotten ; 
it required the proof positive of Stella seated 
there smiling in her hat and scarlet feather, 
and with the wedding-ring on her small hand, 


to show even now that Alan only meant friend- 


COMMONPLACE, 117 


liness, when he might seem to mean so much 
more. 

Lucy revolted under the fascination of his 
manner; feeling angry with herself that he 
still could wield power over her fancy, and 
anery a little with him for having made him- 
self so much to her and no more. She insisted 
on leaving the sofa, rang the bell for a second 
edition of tea, and sent up the visitors’ names 
to her sisters. When they came down she 
turned as much shoulder as good breeding 
tolerated towards Alan, and devoted all the 
attention she could command to Stella. Soon 
the two were laughing together over some 
feminine little bit of fun; then Lucy brought 
out an intricate piece of tatting, which, when 
completed, was to find its way to Notting 
Hill—the antimacassar of Mr. Durham’s first 
visit there being, in fact, her handiwork; and, — 
lastly, Lucy, once more for the moment with 
pretty pink cheeks and brightened eyes, con- 
voyed her new friend upstairs to inspect Jane’s 

‘ bridal dress, white satin, under Honiton lace. 


When the visit was over, and Lucy safe 


118 COMMONPLACE. 


in the privacy of her own room, a sigh of 
relief escaped her, followed by a sentiment of 
deep thankfulness; she had met Alan again, 
and he had disappointed her. Yes, the spectre 
which had haunted her for weeks past had, 
at length, been brought face to face and had 
vanished. Perhaps surprise at his marriage 
had magnified her apparent disappointment, 
perhaps dread of continuing to love another 
woman’s husband had imparted a morbid and 
unreal sensitiveness to her feelings; be this 
as it might, she had now seen Alan again, 
and had felt irritated by the very manner 
that used to charm. In the revulsion of her 
feelings she was almost ready to deem herself 
fortunate and Stella pitiable. 

She felt excited, exalted, triumphant rather 
than happy; a little pained, and, withal, very 
glad. Life seemed to glow within her, her 
blood to course faster and fuller, her heart to 
throb, lightened of a load. Recollections which 
she had not dared face alone, Mr. Hartley, 
by recalling, had stripped of their dangerous 
charm ; had stripped of the tenderness she had 


COMMONPLACE. IIg 


dreaded, and the sting under which she had 
writhed; for he was the same, yet not the 
same. Now, for the first time, she suspected 
him not indeed of hollowness, but of shallow- 
ness. 

She threw open her window to the glorious 
August moon and stars, and, leaning out, drank 
deep of the cool night air. She ceased to 
think of persons, of events, of feelings; her 
whole heart swelled, and became uplifted with 
a thankfulness altogether new to her, profound, 
transporting. When at length she slept, it 
was with moist eyes and smiling lips. 


I20 


CHAPTI-ARGAw 


THE wedding was over. Jane might have looked 
still prettier but for an unmistakable expression 
of gratified vanity; Mr. Durham might have 
borne himself still more pompously but for a 
deep-seated, wordless conviction, that his bride 
and her family looked down upon him. Months 
of scheming and weeks of fuss had ended in 
a marriage, to which the,one party brought 
neither refinement nor tact, and the other neither 
respect nor affection. 

Wedding guests, however, do not assemble 
to witness exhibitions of respect or affection, 
and may well dispense with tact and refine- 
ment when delicacies not in season are pro- 
vided; therefore, the party on the Esplanade 
waxed gay as befitted the occasion, and ex- 
pressed itself in toasts of highly improbable 
import. 


COMMONPLACE. 12a 


The going off was, perhaps, the least suc- 
cessful point of the show. Catherine viewed 
flinging shoes as superstitious, Jane as vulgar; 
therefore no shoes were to be flung. Mr. 
Durham might have made head against ‘ super- 
stitious, but dared not brave ‘vulgar; so he 
kept to himself the fact that he should hardly 
feel thoroughly married without a tributary shoe, 
and meanly echoed Jane’s scorn. But Stella, 
who knew her father’s genuine sentiment, chose 
to ignore ‘superstition’ and ‘vulgarity’ alike; 
so, at the last moment, she snatched off her 
own slipper, and dexterously hurled it over 
the carriage, to Jane’s disgust (no love was 
lost between the two young ladies), and to 
Mr. Durham’s inward satisfaction. 

Lucy had not joined the wedding party, 
not caring overmuch to see Jane marry the 
man who served her as a butt; but she peeped 
wistfully at the going off, with forebodings in 
her heart, which turned naturally into prayers, 
for the ill-matched couple. In the evening, 
however, when many of the party had re- 


turned to London, the few real friends and 


I22 COMMONPLACE. 


familiar acquaintances who reassembled as Miss 
Charlmont’s guests found Lucy in the drawing- 
room, wrapped up in something gauzily be- 
coming to indicate that she had been ill, and 
looking thin under her wraps. 

In Miss Charlmont’s idea a wedding-party 
should be at once mirthful and grave, neither 
dull nor frivolous. Dancing and cards were 
frivolous, conversation might prove dull; games 
were all frivolous except chess, which, being 
exclusive, favoured general dulness. These 
points she had impressed several times on Lucy, 
who was suspected of an inopportune hankering 
after bagatelle; and who now sat in the snuggest 
corner of the sofa, feeling shy, and at a loss 
what topic to start that should appear neither 
dull nor frivolous. 

Dr. Tyke relieved her by turning her em- 
barrassment into a fresh channel: what had 
she been doing to make herself ‘look like a 
turnip-ghost before its candle is lighted ?? 

‘My dear Lucy!’ cried Mrs. Tyke, loud 
enough for everybody to hear her, ‘you really 


do look dreadful, as if you were moped to 


COMMONPLACE. 124 


death. You had much better come with the 
Doctor and me to the Lakes. Now I beg 
you to say yes, and come.’ 

Alan heard with good-natured concern; 
Arthur Tresham heard as if he heard not. 
But the first greeting had been very cordial 
between him and Lucy, and he had not seemed 
to remark her faded face. 

‘Yes, resumed Dr. Tyke. ‘Now that’s 
settled. You pack up to-night and start with 
us to-morrow, and you shall be doctored with 
the cream of drugs for nothing.’ 

But Lucy said the plan was preposterous, 
and she felt old and lazy. 

Mrs. Tyke caught her up: ‘Old? my dear 
child! and I feeling young to this day !’ 

And the Doctor added: ‘Why not be pre- 
posterous and happy? “ Quel che piace giova,” 
as our sunny neighbours say. Besides, your © 
excuses are incredible: “ Not at home,” as the 
snail answered to the woodpecker’s rap.’ 

Lucy laughed, but stood firm; Catherine 
protesting that she should please herself. At 


last a compromise was struck: Lucy, on her 


124 COMMONPLACE. 


cousins’ return from their tour, should go to 
Notting Hill, and winter there if the change 
did her good. ° ‘If. not,” saic@eaieweweari: 
‘I shall come home again, to be nursed by 
Catherine.’ 

‘If not,’ said Dr. Tyke, gravely for once, 
‘we may think about our all seeing Naples 
together.’ 

Edith Sims, her hair and complexion toned 
down by candlelight, sat wishing Mr. Ballantyne 
would come and talk to her; and Mr. Ballan- 
tyne, unmindful of Edith at the other end of 
the room, sat making up his mind. Before the 
accident in the Drumble he had thought of Lucy 
with a certain distinction, since that accident he 
had felt uncomfortably in her debt, and now 
he sat reflecting that, once gone for the winter, 
she might be gone for good so far as himself 
was concerned. She was nice-looking and 
amiable; she was tender towards little mother- 
less Frank; her fortune stood above rather than 
below what he had proposed to himself in a 
second wife:—if Edith could have read his 


thoughts, she would have smiled less compla- 


: 


COMMONPLACE. 125 


cently when at last he crossed over to talk to 
her of Brunette and investments, and when later 
still he handed her in to supper. As it was, 
candlelight and content became her, and she 
looked her best. 

Mrs. Gawkins Drum, beaming with good will, 
and harmonious in silver-grey moire under old 
point lace, contrasted favourably with her angular 
sister-in-law, whose strict truthfulness forbade 
her looking congratulatory: for now that she 
had seen the ‘elegant man of talent’ of her pre- 
visions, she could not but think that Jane had 
married his money-bags rather than himself: 
therefore Miss Drum looked severe, and when 
viewed in the light of a wedding guest, 
ominous. 

Catherine, no less conscientious than her old 
friend, took an opposite line, and laboured her 
very utmost to hide mortification and mis- 
givings, and to show forth that cheerful hospi- 
tality which befitted the occasion when con- 
templated from an ideal point of view; but ease 
was not amongst her natural gifts, and she failed 


to acquire it on the spur of an uneasy moment. 


126 COMMONPLACE. 


Warners make the Man,’ ‘Morals make the 
Man,’ kept running obstinately in her head, and 
she could not fit Mr. Durham to either sentence. 
In all Brompton-on-Sea there was no heavier 
heart that night than Catherine Charlmont’s. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


NOVEMBER had come, the Tykes were settled 
at home again, and Lucy Charlmont sat in a 
railway-carriage on her way from Brompton-on- 
Sea to Notting Hill. Wrapped up in furs, and 
with a novel open on her lap, she looked very 
snug in her corner; she looked, moreover, 
plumper and brighter than at Jane’s wedding- 
party. But her expression of unmistakable 
amusement was not derived from the novel 
lying unread in her lap: it had its source in 
recollections of Mr. Ballantyne, who had made 
her an offer the day before, and who had ob- 
viously been taken aback when she rejected 
his suit. All her proneness to bring herself in 
in the wrong could not make her fear that she 
had even for one moment said or done, looked 
or thought, what ought to have misled him: 


128 COMMONPLACE. 


therefore conscience felt at ease, and the comic 
side of his demeanour remained to amuse her, 
despite a decorous wish to feel sorry for him. 
He had looked so particularly unimpulsive in 
the act of proposing, and then had appeared 
so much more disconcerted than grieved at her 
positive ‘No,’ and had ‘hinted so broadly that 
he hoped she would not talk about his offer, 
that she could not imagine the matter very 
serious to him: and if not to him assuredly to 
nobody else. ‘I dare say it will be Edith Sims 
at last,’ mused she, and wished them both well. 

A year earlier his offer might have been a 
matter of mere indifference to her, but not now; 
for her birthday was just over, and it was 
eratifying to find herself not obsolete even at 
thirty. This birthday had loomed before her 
threateningly for months past, but now it was 
over; and it became a sensible relief to feel 
and look at thirty very much as she had felt 
and looked at twenty-nine. Her mirror bore 
witness to no glaring accession of age having 
come upon her in a single night. ‘After all, 
she mused, ‘life isn’t over at thirty. Her 


COMMONPLACE. 129 


thoughts flew before her to Notting Hill; if 
they dwelt on any one in especial, it was not 
on Alan Hartley. 

Not on Alan Hartley, though she foresaw 
that they must meet frequently; for he and 
Stella were at Kensington again, planning to 
stay there over Christmas. Stella she rather 
_ liked than disliked; and as she no longer deemed 
her lot enviable, to see more of her would 
be no grievance. Mr. Tresham also was in 
London, and likely to remain there; for since 
his return from the East he had taken himself 
to task for idleness, and had joined a band of 
good men in an effort to visit and relieve the 
East-end poor in their squalid homes. His 
hobby happened to be emigration, but he did 
not ride his hobby rough-shod over his destitute 
neighbours. He was in London hard at work, 
and by no means faring sumptuously every 
day; but glad sometimes to get a mouthful of 
pure night air and of something more substan- 
tial at Notting Hill. He and Lucy had not 
merely renewed acquaintance at the wedding- 
party, but had met more than once afterwards 

K 


130 COMMONPLACE. 


during a week’s holiday he gave himself at the 
seaside; had met on the beach, or in country 
lanes, or down in some of the many drumbles. 
They had botanised in company; and one day 
had captured a cuttle-fish together, which Lucy 
insisted on putting safe back into the sea before 
they turned homewards. ‘They. had talked of 
what grew at their feet or lay before their eyes; 
but neither of them had alluded to those old 
days when first they had known and liked each 
other, though they obviously liked each other 
still. 

Lucy, her thoughts running on some one 
who was not Alan, would have made a very 
pretty picture. <A sort of latent smile pervaded 
her features without deranging them, and her 
eyes, gazing out at the dreary autumn branches, : 
looked absent and soft; soft, tender, and pleased, 
though with a wistful expression through all. 

The short, winter-like day had darkened by 
the time London Bridge was reached. Lucy 
stepped on to the platform in hopes of being 
claimed by Dr. Tyke’s man; but no such 
functionary appeared, neither was the fat coach- 


COMMONPLACE. 131 


man discernible along the line of vehicles await- 
ing occupants. It was the first time Lucy had 
arrived in London without being either accom- 
' panied or met at the Station, and the novel 
position made her feel shy and a little nervous; 
so she was glad to stand unobtrusively against 
a wall, whilst more enterprising individuals 
found or missed their luggage. She preferred 
waiting, and she had to wait whilst passengers 
craned their necks, elbowed their neighbours, 
blundered, bawled, worried the Company’s ser- 
vants, and found everything correct after all. 
At last the huge mass of luggage dwindled to 
three boxes, one carpet-bag, and one hamper, 
which were Lucy’s own; and which, with her- 
self, a porter consigned to a cab. Thus ended 
her anxieties. 

From London Bridge to Notting Hill the 
cabman of course knew his way, but in the 
mazes of Notting Hill he appealed to his fare 
for guidance. Lucy informed him that Apple- 
trees House stood in its own large garden, and 
was sure to be well lighted up; and that it lay 
somewhere to the left, up a steepish hill. A 


132 COMMONPLACE. 


few wrong turnings first made and next re- 
trieved, a few lucky guesses, brought them to 
a garden-wall, which a passing postman told 
them belonged to Dr. Tyke’s premises. Lucy 
thrust her head out, and thought it all looked 
very like, except that the house itself stood 
enveloped in grim darkness; she had never 
noticed it look so dark before: could it be that 
she had been forgotten and every one had gone 
out? 

They drove round the little sweep and 
knocked ; waited, and knocked again. It was 
not till the grumbling cabman had knocked 
loud and long a third time that the door was 
opened by a crying maid-servant, who admitted 
Lucy into the unlighted hall with the explana- 
tion: ‘O Miss, Miss, master has had a fit, and 
mistress is taking on so you can hear her all 
over the place. At the same instant a peal of 
screaming, hysterical laughter rang through the 
house. 

Without waiting for a candle, Lucy ran 
stumbling up the broad staircase, guided at 
once by her familiarity with the house and by 


COMMONPLACE. 133 


her cousin’s screams. On the second-floor 
landing one door stood open revealing light at 
last, and Lucy ran straight in amongst the 
lights and the people. For a moment she was 
dazzled, and distinguished nothing clearly: in 
another moment she saw and understood all. 
Arthur Tresham and a strange gentleman were 
standing pale and silent at the fireplace, an old 
servant, stooping over the pillows, was busied 
in some noiseless way, and Mrs. Tyke had flung 
herself face downwards on the bed beside her 
husband. 

Her husband? No, not her husband any 


longer, for she was a widow. 


134 


CHAPTER XVIL 


A WEEK of darkened windows, of condolence- 
cards and hushed inquiries, of voices and faces 
saddened, of footsteps treading softly on one 
landing. A week of many tears and quiet 
sorrow; of many words, for in some persons 
grief speaks; and of half-silent sympathy, for 
in some even sympathy is silent. A week 
wherein to weigh this world and find it want- 
ing, wherein also to realise the far more ex- 
ceeding weight of the other. A week begun 
with the hope whose blossom goes up as dust, 
and ending with the sure and certain hope of 
the resurrection. 

In goods and chattels, Mrs. Tyke remained 
none the poorer for her husband’s death. He. 
had left almost everything to her and absolutely 
at her disposal, well knowing that their old 


COMMONPLACE. 135 


faithful servants were no less dear to her 
than to himself, and having on his side no 
poor relations to provide for. His nephew 
Alan Hartley, and Mr. Tresham, were appointed 
his executors. Alan the good-natured, addicted 
to shirking trouble in general, consistently shirked 
this official trouble in particular. Arthur Tre- 
sham did what little work there was to do, 
and did it in such a way as veiled his friend’s 
shortcomings. Mrs. Tyke, with a life-long habit 
of leaning on some one, came, as a matter 
of course, to lean on him, and appealed to 
him as to all sorts of details, without once 
considering whether the .time he devoted to 
her service was reclaimed out of his work, or 
leisure, or rest; he best knew, and the know- 
ledge remained with him. Alan, though sin- 
cerely sorry for his uncle’s death, cut private 
jokes with Stella about his co-executor’s frequent 
visits to Appletrees House, and ignored the 
shortcomings which entailed their necessity. 
Mrs. Tyke, in her bereavement, clung to 
Lucy, and was thoroughly amiable and help- 
less. She would sit for hours over the fire, 


136 COMMONPLACE. 


talking and crying her eyes and her nose red, 
whilst Lucy wrote her letters, or grappled with 
her bills. Then they would both grow sleepy, 
and doze off in opposite chimney-corners. So 
the maid might find them when she brought 
up tea, or so Arthur when he dropped in on 
business, or possibly on pleasure. Mrs. Tyke 
would sometimes merely open sleepy eyes, 
shake hands, and doze off again; but Lucy 
would sit up wide awake in a moment, ready 
to listen to all his long stories about his 
poor people. Soon she took to making things 
for them, which he carried away in his pocket, 
or, when too bulky for his pocket, in a parcel 
under his arm. At last it happened, that 
they began talking of old days, before he 
went to the East, and then each found that 
the other remembered a great deal about those 
old days. So gradually it came to pass that, 
from looking back together, they took also 
to looking forward together. 

Lucy’s courtship was most prosaic. Old 
women’s flannel and old men’s rheumatism 


alternated with some more usual details of 


COMMONPLACE. 137 


love-making, and the exchange of rings was 
avowedly an exchange of old rings. Arthur 
presented Lucy with his mother’s wedding- 
cuard; but Lucy gave him a fine diamond 
solitaire which had been her father’s, and the 
romantic corner of her heart was gratified by 
the inequality of the gifts. She would have 
preferred a little more romance certainly on 
his side; if not less sense, at least more 
sentiment ; something reasonable enough to be 
relied upon, yet unreasonable enough to be 
flattering. ‘But one cannot have everything,’ 
she reflected, meekly remembering her own 
thirty years; and she felt what a deep resting- 
place she had found in Arthur’s trusty heart, 
and how shallow a grace had been the flatter- 
ing charm of Alan’s manner. Till, weighing 
her second love against her first, tears, at 
once proud and humble, filled her eyes, and 
‘one cannot have everything’ was forgotten 
in ‘I can never give him back half enough.’ 
After the exchange of rings, she announced 
her engagement to Catherine and Mrs, Tyke; 


to Jane also and Mr. Durham in few words; 


138 COMMONPLACE. 


and as all business connected with Dr. Tyke’s 
will was already satisfactorily settled, and Apple- 
trees House about to pass into fresh hands, she 
prepared to return home. Mrs. Tyke, too 
purposeless to be abandoned to her own re- 
sources, begged an invitation to Brompton- 
on-Sea, and received a cordial welcome down 
from both sisters. Arthur was to remain at 
work in London till after Easter; and then 
to join his friends at the seaside, claim his 
bride, and take her away to spend their honey- 
moon beside that beautiful blue Bosphorus which 
had not made him forget her. 

If there was a romantic moment in their 
courtship, it was the moment of parting at the 
noisy, dirty, crowded railway-station, when 
Arthur terrified Lucy, to her great delight, by 
standing on the carriage-step, and holding her 
hand locked fast in his own, an instant after 
the train had started. 


139 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A SHORT chapter makes fitting close to a short 
story. 

In mid May, on a morning which set 
forth the perfection either of sunny spring 
warmth or of breezy summer freshness, Arthur 
Tresham and Lucy Charlmont took each other 
for better for worse, till death should them 
part. Mr. Gawkins Drum gave away the 
bride; Miss Drum appeared auspicious as a 
rainbow ; Catherine glowed and expanded with 
unselfish happiness; Mrs. Gawkins Drum pro- 
nounced the bride graceful, elegant, but old- 
looking; Mr. Durham contributed a costly 
wedding present, accompanied by a speech 
both ostentatious and affectionate; Jane dis- 
played herself a little disdainful, a little cross, 
and supremely handsome; Alan and Stella— 


140 COMMONPLACE. 


there was a young Alan now, a comical little 
fright, more like mother than father—Alan and 
Stella seemed to enjoy their friend’s wedding as 
light-heartedly as they had enjoyed their own. 
No tears were shed, no stereotyped hypocri- 
sies uttered, no shoes flung; this time a true 
man and a true woman who loved and honoured 
each other, and whom no man should put 
asunder, were joined together; and thus the 
case did not lend itself to any tribute of lies, 


miscalled white. — 


Four months after their marriage Mr. Tresham 
was hard at work again in London among 
his East-end poor; while Lucy, taking a day’s 
holiday at Brompton-on Sea, sat in the old 
familiar drawing-room, Catherine’s exclusively 
now. She had returned from the East bloom- 
ing, vigorous, full of gentle fun and kindly 
happiness: so happy, that she would not have 
exchanged her present lot for aught except 
her own future; so happy, that it saddened 
her to believe Catherine less happy than her- 
self. 


COMMONPLACE. I4I 


The two sisters sat at the open window, 
alike yet unlike: the elder handsome, resolute, 
composed; the younger with the old wistful 
expression in her tender beautiful eyes, They 
had talked of Jane, who, though not dissatisfied 
with her lot, too obviously despised her hus- 
band; once lately, she had written of him as 
the ‘ habitation-tax’ paid for Orpingham Place: 
of Jane, who’ was too worldly either to keep 
right in the spirit, or go wrong in the letter. 
They had talked, and they had fallen silent; 
for Catherine, who loved no one on earth as 
she loved her frivolous sister, could best bear 
in silence the sting of shame and grief for her 
sake. 

Full in view of the drawing-room windows 
spread the sea, beautiful, strong, resistless, mur- 
muring; the sea which had cast a burden on 
Catherine’s life, and from which she now never 
meant to absent herself; the sea from which 
Lucy had fled in the paroxysm of her nervous 
misery. ‘ 

At last Lucy spoke again very earnestly,— 
‘Oh, Catherine, I cannot bear to be so happy 


142 COMMONPLACE. 


when I think of you! If only you, too, had 
a future.’ | 

Catherine leaned over her happy sister 
and gave her one kiss, a rare sign with her 
of affectionate emotion. Then she turned to 
face the open sky and sea.—‘My dear,’ she 
answered, whilst her eyes gazed beyond clouds 
and waves, and rested on one narrow streak 
of sunlight which glowed at the horizon‘ My 
dear, my future seems further off than yours; 


but I certainly have a future, and I can wait.’ 


woe LOSE TITIAN. 








THE LOST. TITIAN. 


‘A lie with a circumstance.’ 
WALTER SCOTT. 


THE last touch was laid on. The great painter 
stood opposite the masterpiece of the period ; 
the masterpiece of his life. 

Nothing remained to be added. The orange 
drapery was perfect in its fruit-like intensity of 
hue; each vine-leaf was curved, each tendril 
twisted, as if fanned by the soft south wind; the 
sunshine brooded drowsily upon every dell and 
swelling upland: but a tenfold drowsiness slept 
in the cedar shadows. Look a moment, and 
those cymbals must clash, that panther bound 
forward; draw nearer, and the songs of those 
ripe, winy lips must become audible. 

L 


146 THE LOST TITIAN, 


The achievement of his life glowed upon the 
easel, and Titian was satisfied. 

Beside him, witnesses of his triumph, stood 
his two friends—Gianni the successful, and 
Giannuccione the universal disappointment. 

Gianni ranked second in Venice ; second in 
most things, but in nothing first. His colorito 
paled only before that of his illustrious rival, 
whose supremacy, however, he ostentatiously 
asserted. So in other matters. Only the re- 
nowned Messer Cecchino was a more sonorous 
singer; only fire-eating Prince Barbuto a better 
swordsman ; only Arrigo il Biondo a finer dancer 
or more sculpturesque beauty; even Caterina 
Suprema, in that contest of gallantry which has 
been celebrated by so many pens and pencils, 
though she awarded the rose of honour to Matteo 
Grande, the wit, yet plucked off a leaf for the 
all but victor Gianni. 

A step behind him lounged Giannuccione, 
who had promised everything and fulfilled no- 
thing. At the appearance of his first picture— 
‘Venus whipping Cupid with feathers plucked 


from his own wing’—Venice rang with his praises, 


THE LOST TITIAN. 147 


and Titian foreboded a rival: but when, year 
after year, his works appeared still lazily im- 
perfect, though always all but perfect, Venice 
subsided into apathetic silence, and Titian felt 
that no successor to his throne had as yet 
achieved the purple. 

So these two stood with the great master in 
the hour of his triumph: Gianni loud, and Gian- 
nuccione hearty, in his applauses, 

Only these two stood with him: as yet 
Venice at large knew not what her favourite 
had produced. It was, indeed, rumoured, that 
Titian had long been at work on a painting 
which he himself accounted his masterpiece, but 
its subject was a secret ; and while some spoke of 
it as an undoubted Vintage of red grapes, others 
maintained it to bea Dance of wood-nymphs ; while 
one old gossip whispered that, whatever else the 
painting might contain, she knew whose sunset- 
coloured tresses and white brow would figure 
in the foreground. But the general ignorance 
mattered little; for, though words might have 
named the theme, no words could have described 


a picture which combined the softness of a dove’s 


148 THE LOST TITIAN. 


breast with the intensity of an October sunset : 
a picture of which the light almost warmed, and 
the fruit actually bloomed and tempted. 

Titian gazed upon his work, and was satis- 
fied : Giannuccione gazed upon his friend’s work, 
and was satisfied: only Gianni gazed upon his 
friend and upon his work, and was enviously 
dissatisfied. 

‘To-morrow, said Titian,—‘ to-morrow Venice 
shall behold what she has long honoured by her 
curiosity. To-morrow, with music and festivity, 
the unknown shall be unveiled; and you, my 
friends, shall withdraw the curtain.’ 

The two friends assented. 

‘To-morrow,’ he continued, half amused, half 
thoughtful, ‘ I know whose white brows will be 
knit, and whose red lips will pout. Well, they 
shall have their turn: but blue eyes are not al- 
ways in season ; hazel eyes, like hazel nuts, have 
their season also.’ 

‘True, chimed the chorus. 

‘But to-night, he pursued, ‘let us devote 
the hours to sacred friendship. Let us with 


songs and bumpers rehearse to-morrow’s festi- 


THE LOST TITIAN. 149 


vities, and let your congratulations forestall its 
triumphs.’ 

‘Yes, evviva /’ returned the chorus, briskly ; 
and again ‘evviva !’ 

So, with smiles and embraces, they parted. 
So they met again at the welcome coming of 
Argus-eyed night. 

The studio was elegant with clusters of 
flowers, sumptuous with crimson, gold-bordered 
hangings, and luxurious with cushions and per- 
fumes. From the walls peeped pictured fruit 
and fruit-like faces, between the curtains and 
in the corners gleamed moonlight-tinted statues ; 
whilst on the easel reposed the beauty of the 
evening, overhung by budding boughs, and illu- 
minated by an alabaster lamp burning scented 
oil. Strewn about the apartment lay musical 
instruments and packs of cards. On the table 
were silver dishes, filled with leaves and choice 
fruits ; wonderful vessels of Venetian glass, con- 
taining rare wines and iced waters ; and footless 
goblets, which allowed the guest no choice but 
to drain his bumper. 


That night the bumpers brimmed. Toast 


I50 THE LOST TITIAN. 


after toast was quaffed to the success of to- 
morrow, the exaltation of the unveiled beauty, 
the triumph of its author. 

At last Giannuccione, flushed and sparkling, 
rose: ‘Let us drink,’ he cried, “to"oureiost > 
success to-morrow: may it be greater than the 
past, and less than the future!’ 

‘Not so,’ answered Titian, suddenly; ‘not 
so: I feel my star culminate.’ 

He said it gravely, pushing back his seat, 
and rising from table. His spirits seemed in 
a moment to flag, and he looked pale in the 
moonlight. It was as though the blight of the 
evil eye had fallen upon him. 

Gianni saw his disquiet, and laboured to re- 
move it. He took a lute from the floor, and 
tuning it, exerted his skill in music. He wrung 
from the strings cries of passion, desolate sobs, 
a wail as’ of one abandoned, plaintive, most 
tender tones as of the solitario passero. The 
charm worked: vague uneasiness was melting 
into delicious melancholy. He redoubled his 
efforts; he drew out tinkling notes joyful as the 


feet of dancers; he struck notes like fire, and, 


THE LOST TITIAN. I51 


uniting his voice to the instrument, sang the 
glories of Venice and of Titian. His voice, full, 
mellow, exultant, vibrated through the room ; 
and, when it ceased, the bravos of his friends 
rang out an enthusiastic chorus. 

Then, more stirring than the snap of cas- 
tanets on dexterous fingers; more fascinating, 
more ominous, than a snake’s rattle, sounded 
the music of the dice-box. 

The stakes were high, waxing higher, and 
higher ; the tide of fortune set steadily towards 
Titian. Giannuccione laughed and _ played, 
played and laughed with reckless good-nature, 
doubling and redoubling his bets apparently 
quite at random. At length, however, he 
paused, yawned, laid down the dice. observing 
that it would cost him a good six months’ toil 
to pay off his losses—a remark which elicited 
a peculiar smile of intelligence from his com- 
panions—and, lounging back upon the cushions, 
fell fast asleep. 

Gianni also had been a loser: Gianni the 
imperturbable, who won and lost alike with 


steady hand and unvarying colour. Rumour 


152 THE LOST TITIAN: 


stated that one evening he lost, won back, lost 
once more, and finally regained his whole pro- 
perty unmoved: at last only relinquishing the 
game, which fascinated, but could not excite 
him, for lack of an adversary. 

In like manner he now threw his possessions, 
as coolly as if they been another’s, piecemeal 
into the gulph. First his money went, then his 
collection of choice sketches ; his gondola fol- 
lowed, his plate, his jewelry. These gone, for 
the first time he laughed. 

‘Come,’ he said, ‘amico mio, let us throw 
the crowning cast. I stake thereon myself; if 
you win, you may sell me to the Moor to- 
morrow, with the remnant of my patrimony ; 
to wit, one house, containing various articles of 
furniture and apparel; yea, if aught else remains 
to me, that also do I stake: against these set 
you your newborn beauty, and let us throw for 
the last time; lest it be said cogged dice are 
used in Venice, and I be taunted with the true 
proverb,—* Save me from my friends, and I will 
take care of my enemies.’ 


‘So be it, mused Titian, “eGvenweonssa san 


THE LOST TITIAN. 153 


gain, my friend shall not suffer; if I lose, I can 
but buy back my treasure with this night’s 
winnings. His whole fortune will stand Gianni 
in more stead than my picture; moreover, luck 
favours me. Besides, it can only be that my 
friend jests, and would try my confidence.’ 

So argued Titian, heated by success, by 
wine and play. But for these, he would freely 
have restored his adversary’s fortune, though it 
had been multiplied tenfold, and again tenfold, 
rather than have risked his life’s labour on the 
hazard of the dice. 

They threw. 

Luck had turned, and Gianni was successful. 

Titian, nothing doubting, laughed as he 
looked up from the table into his companion’s 
face; but no shadow of jesting lingered there. 
Their eyes met, and read each other's heart at a 
glance. 

One, discerned the gnawing envy of a life 
satiated : a thousand mortifications, a thousand 
inferiorities, compensated in a moment. 

The other, read an indignation that even yet 


scarcely realised the treachery which kindled 


154 THE LOST TITIAN, 


it; a noble indignation, that more upbraided 
the false friend than the destroyer of a life’s 
hope. 


It was a nine-days’ wonder in Venice what 
had become of Titian’s masterpiece ; who had 
spirited it away,—why, when, and where. Some 
explained the mystery by hinting that Cle-— 
mentina Beneplacida, having gained secret access 
to the great master’s studio, had there, by dint 
of scissors, avenged her slighted beauty, and 
in effigy defaced her nut-brown rival. Others 
said that Giannuccione, paying tipsy homage 
to his friend’s performance, had marred its yet 
moist surface. Others again averred, that in 
a moment of impatience, Titian’s own sponge 
flung against the canvas, had irremediably 
blurred the principal figure. None knew, none 
guessed the truth. Wonder fulfilled its little 
day, and then, subsiding, was forgotten: having, 
it may be, after all, as truly amused Venice 
the volatile as any work of art could have 
done, though it had robbed sunset of its glow, 
its glory, and its fire. 


THE LOST TITIAN. 155 


But why was the infamy of that night 
kept secret? 

By Titian, because in blazoning abroad his 
companion’s treachery, he would subject him- 
self to the pity of those from whom he scarcely 
accepted homage; and, in branding Gianni 
as a traitor, he would expose himself as a 
dupe. . 

By Gianni, because had the truth got wind, 
his iniquitous prize might have been wrested 
from him, and his malice frustrated in the 
moment of triumph; not to mention that ven- 
geance had a subtler relish when it kept back 
a successful rival from the pinnacle of fame, 
than when it merely exposed a friend to hu- 
miliation. As artists, they might possibly have 
been accounted rivals; as astute men of the 
world, never. 

Giannuccione had not witnessed all the trans- 
actions of that night. Thanks to his drunken 
sleep, he knew little; and what he guessed, 
Titian’s urgency induced him to suppress. It 
was, indeed, noticed how, from that time for- 


ward, two of the three inseparables appeared 


156 THE LOST TITIAN. 


in a measure, estranged from the third; yet 
all outward observances of courtesy were con- 
tinued, and, if embraces had ceased, bows and 
doffings never failed. 

For weeks, even for months, Gianni restrained 
his love for play, and, painting diligently, la- 
boured to rebuild his shattered fortune. All 
prospered in his hands. His sketches sold 
with unprecedented readiness, his epigrams 
charmed the noblest dinner-givers, his verses 
and piquant little airs won him admission into 
the most exclusive circles. Withal, he seemed 
to be steadying. His name no more pointed 
stories of drunken frolics in the purlieus of 
the city, of mad wagers in the meanest com- 
pany, of reckless duels with nameless adversaries. 
If now he committed follies, they were com- 
mitted in the best society; if he sinned, it 
was, at any rate, in a patrician casa; and, 
though his morals might not yet be flawless, his 
taste was unimpeachable. His boon companions 
grumbled, yet could not afford to dispense with 
him; his warmest friends revived hopes which 
long ago had died away into despair. It was 


THE LOST TITIAN. 157 


the heyday of his life: fortune and Venice 
alike courted him; he had but to sun himself 
in their smiles, and accept their favours. 

So, nothing loth, he did, and for a while 
prospered. But, as the extraordinary stimulus 
flagged, the extraordinary energy flagged with 
it. Leisure returned, and with leisure the al- 
lurements of old pursuits. In proportion as 
his expenditure increased, his gains lessened; 
and, just when all his property, in fact, be- 
longed to his creditors, he put the finishing 
stroke to his obvious ruin, by staking and 
losing at the gambling-table what was no longer 
his own. 

That night beheld Gianni grave, dignified, 
imperturbable, and a beggar. Next day, his 
creditors, princely and plebeian, would be upon 
him: everything must go; not a scrap, not a 
fragment, could be held back. Even Titian’s 
masterpiece would be claimed; that prize for 
which he had played away his soul, by which, 
it may be, he had hoped to acquire a world- 
wide fame, when its mighty author should be 


silenced for ever in the dust. 


158 THE LOST TITIAN. 


Yet to-morrow, not to-night, would be the 
day of reckoning; to-night, therefore, was his 
own. With a cool head he conceived, with a 
steady hand he executed, his purpose. Taking 
coarse pigments, such as, when he pleased, 
might easily be removed, he daubed over those 
figures which seemed to live, and that won- 
derful background, which not Titian himself 
could reproduce; then, on the blank surface, 
he painted a dragon, flaming, clawed, prepos- 
terous. One day he would recover his dragon, 
recover his Titian under the dragon, and the 
world should see. 

Next morning the crisis came. 

After all, Gianni’s effects were worth more 
than had been supposed. They included Gian- 
nuccione’s Venus whipping Cupid—how obtained, 
who knows ?—a curiously wrought cup, by a 
Florentine goldsmith, just then rising into notice ; 
within the hollow of the foot was engraved 
Benvenuto Cellini, surmounted by an outstretched 
hand, symbolic of welcome, and quaintly al- 
lusive to the name; a dab by Giorgione, a 
scribble of the brush by Titian, and two feet 


THE LOST TITIAN. I59 


square of genuine Tintoret. The creditors 
brightened ; there was not enough for honesty, 
but there was ample for the production of a 
most decorous bankrupt. 

His wardrobe was a study of colour; his 
trinkets, few but choice, were of priceless good 
taste. Moreover, his demeanour was unimpeach- 
able and his delinquencies came to light with 
the best grace imaginable. Some called him a 
defaulter, but all admitted he was a thorough 
gentleman. 

Foremost in the hostile ranks stood Titian; 
Titian, who now, for the first time since that 
fatal evening, crossed his rival’s threshold. His 
eye searched eagerly among the heap of name- 
less canvasses for one unforgotten beauty, who 
had occasioned him such sore heartache; but 
he sought in vain; only in the forefront sprawled 
a dragon, flaming, clawed, preposterous ; grinned, 
twinkled, erected his tail, and flouted him. 

‘Yes,’ said Gianni, answering his looks, not 
words, yet seeming to address the whole circle, 
‘Signort miei, these compose all my gallery. 
An immortal sketch, by Messer Tiziano’—here 


160 THE LOST TITIAN. 


a complimentary bow—‘a veritable Giorgione ; 
your own work, Messer Robusti, which needs 
no comment of mine to fix its value. A 
few productions by feebler hands, yet not devoid 
of merit. These are all. The most precious 
part of my collection was destroyed (I need 
not state, accidentally), three days ago by fire. 
That dragon, yet moist, was designed for mine 
host, Bevilacqua Mangiaruva; but this morning, 
I hear, with deep concern, of his sudden demise.’ 

Here Lupo Vorace of the Ovco decapitato 
stepped forward. He,as he explained at length, 
was a man of few words (this, doubtless, in 
theory); but to make a long story short, so 
charmed was he by the scaly monster that 
he would change his sign, accept the ownerless 
dragon, and thereby wipe out a voluminous 
score which stood against his debtor. Gianni, 
with courteous thanks, explained that the 
dragon, still moist, was unfit for immediate 
transport ; that it should remain in the studio 
for a short time longer; and that, as soon as 
its safety permitted, he would himself convey 


it to the inn of his liberal creditor. But on this 


THE LOST TITIAN. 161 


point Lupo was inflexible. In diffuse but un- 
varying terms he claimed instant possession of 
Gianni’s masterstroke. He seized it, reared it 
face upwards on to his head, and by his exit 
broke up the conclave of creditors. 
What remains can be briefly told. 

_ Titian, his last hope in this direction wrecked, 
returned to achieve, indeed, fresh greatnesses : 
but not the less returned to the tedium of 
straining after an ideal once achieved, but now 
lost for ever. Giannuccione, half amused, half 
mortified, at the slighting mention made of his 
performances, revenged himself in an epigram, 


of which the following is a free translation :— 


‘Gianni my friend and I both strove to excel, 
But, missing better, settled down in well. 
Both fail, indeed ; but not alike we fail— 
My forte being Venus’ face, and his a dragon’s tail,’ 


Gianni, in his ruin, took refuge with a former 
friend ; and there, treated almost on the footing 
of a friend, employed his superabundant leisure 
in concocting a dragon superior in all points to 
its predecessor ; but, when this was almost com- 

M 


162 THE LOST TITIAN. 


pleted, this which was to ransom his unsuspected 
treasure from the clutches of Lupo, the more 
relentless clutches of death fastened upon 
himself.’ | 

His secret died with him. 

An oral tradition of a somewhere extant 
lost Titian having survived all historical accu- 
racy, and so descended to another age, misled 
the learned Dr. Landau into purchasing a 
spurious work for the Gallery of Lunenberg ; 
and even more recently induced Dr. Dreieck 
to expend a large sum on a nominal Titian, 
which he afterwards bequeathed to the National 
Museum of Saxe Eulenstein. The subject of 
this latter painting is a Vintage of red grapes, 
full of life and vigour, exhibiting marked talent, 
but clearly assignable to the commencement of 
a later century. 

There remains, however, a hope that some 
happy accident may yet restore to the world 
the masterpiece of one of her most brilliant 
sons. 

Reader, should you chance to discern over 


wayside inn or metropolitan hotel a dragon 


THE LOST TITIAN. 163 


pendent, or should you find such an effigy amid 
the lumber of a broker’s shop, whether it be red, 
green, or piebald, demand it importunately, pay 
for it liberally, and in the privacy of home scrub 
ee at may be that from behind the dragon 
will emerge a fair one, fairer than Andromeda, 
and that to you will appertain the honour of 
yet further exalting Titian’s greatness in the 
eyes of a world. 





NICK. 





IN DGC.K. 


THERE dwelt in a small village, not a thousand 
miles from Fairyland, a poor man, who had no 
family to labour for or friend to assist. When 
I call him poor, you must not suppose he was 
a homeless wanderer, trusting to charity for a 
night’s lodging; on the contrary, his ‘stone 
house, with its green verandah and _ flower- 
garden, was the prettiest and snuggest in all 
the place, the doctor’s only excepted. Neither 
was his store of provisions running low: his 
farm supplied him with milk, eggs, mutton, 
butter, poultry, and cheese in abundance; his 
fields with hops and barley for beer, and wheat 
for bread ; his orchard with fruit and cider; and 
his kitchen-garden with vegetables and whole- 
some herbs. He had, moreover, health, an 


168 NICK. 


appetite to enjoy all these good things, and 
strength to walk about his possessions. No, I 
call him poor because, with all these, he was 
discontented and envious. It was in vain that 
his apples were the largest for miles around, if 
his neighbour’s vines were the most productive 
by a single bunch; it was in vain that his lambs 
were fat and thriving, if some one else’s sheep 
bore twins: so, instead of enjoying his own 
prosperity, and being glad when his neighbours 
prospered too, he would sit grumbling and be- 
moaning himself as if every other man’s riches 
were his poverty. And thus it was that one 
day our friend Nick leaned over Giles Hodge’s 
gate, counting his cherries. 

‘Yes, he muttered, ‘I wish I were sparrows 
to eat them up, or a blight to kill your fine trees 
altogether.’ 

The words were scarcely uttered when he 
felt a tap on his shoulder, and looking round, 
perceived a little rosy woman, no bigger than a 
butterfly, who held her tiny fist clenched in a 
menacing attitude. She looked scornfully at 


him, and said: ‘Now listen, you churl, you! 


NICK. 169 


henceforward you shall straightway become 
everything you wish; only mind, you must re- 
main under one form for at least an hour.’ Then 
she gave him a slap in the face, which made his 
cheek tingle as if a bee had stung him, and dis- 
appeared with just so much sound as a dewdrop 
makes in falling. 

Nick rubbed his cheek in a pet, pulling wry 
faces and showing his teeth. He was boiling 
over with vexation, but dared not vent it in 
words lest some unlucky wish should escape 
him. Just then the sun seemed to shine brighter 
than ever, the wind blew spicy from the south; 
all Giles’s roses looked redder and larger than 
before, while his cherries seemed to multiply, 
swell, ripen. He could refrain no longer, but, 


heedless of the fairy-gift he had just received, 


bf 





exclaimed, ‘I wish I were sparrows eating 
No sooner said than done: in a moment he 
found himself a whole flight of hungry birds, 
pecking, devouring, and bidding fair to devas- 
tate the envied cherry-trees. But honest Giles 
was on the watch hard by; for that very morning 
it had struck him he must make nets for the 


170 NICK. 


protection of his fine fruit. Forthwith he ran 
home, and speedily returned with a revolver fur- 
nished with quite a marvellous array of barrels. 
Pop, bang—pop, bang! he made short work of 
the sparrows, and soon reduced the enemy to 
one crestfallen biped with broken leg and wing, 
who limped to hide himself under a holly-bush. 
But though the fun was over, the hour was not; 
so Nick must needs sit out his allotted time. 
Next a pelting shower came down, which soaked 
him through his torn, ruffled feathers ; and then, 
exactly as the last drops fell and the sun came 
out with a beautiful rainbow, a tabby cat pounced 
upon him. Giving himself up for lost, he chirped 
in desperation, ‘O, I wish I were a dog to worry 
you! Instantly—for the hour was just passed 
—in the grip of his horrified adversary, he turned 
at bay, a savage bull-dog. A shake, a deep 
bite, and poor puss was out of her pain. Nick, 
with immense satisfaction, tore her fur to bits, 
wishing he could in like manner exterminate all 
her progeny. At last, glutted with vengeance, 
he lay down beside his victim, relaxed his ears 
and tail, and fell asleep. 


NICK. 171 


Now that tabby-cat was the property and 
special pet of no less a personage than the doc- 
tor’s lady; so when dinner-time came, and not 
the cat, a general consternation pervaded the 
household. The kitchens were searched, the 
cellars, the attics; every apartment was ran- 
sacked; even the watch-dog’s kennel was vi- 
sited. Next the stable was rummaged, then the 
hay-loft ; lastly, the bereaved lady wandered 
disconsolately through her own private garden 
into the shrubbery, calling ‘Puss, puss,’ and 
looking so intently up the trees as not to per- 
ceive what lay close before her feet. Thus it 
was that, unawares, she stumbled over Nick, and 
trod upon his tail. 

Up jumped our hero, snarling, biting, and 
rushing at her with such blind fury as to miss. 
his aim. She ran, he ran. Gathering up his 
strength, he took a flying-leap after his victim ; 
her foot caught in the spreading root of an oak- 
tree, she fell, and he went over her head, clear 
over, into a bed of stinging-nettles. Then she 
found breath to raise that fatal cry, ‘Mad dog!’ 


Nick’s blood curdled in his veins; he would 


172 NICK. 


have slunk away if he could; but already a 
stout labouring-man, to whom he had done 
many an ill turn in the time of his humanity, 
had spied him, and, bludgeon in hand, was pre- 
paring to give chase. However, Nick had the 
start of him, and used it too; while the lady, 
far behind, went on vociferating, ‘Mad dog, 
mad dog!’ inciting doctor, servants, and vaga- 
bonds to the pursuit. Finally, the whole 
village came pouring out to swell the hue and 
cry. 

The dog kept ahead gallantly, distancing 
more and more the asthmatic doctor, fat Giles, 
and, in fact, all his pursuers except the bludgeon- 
bearing labourer, who was just near enough to 
persecute his tail. Nick knew the magic hour 
must be almost over, and so kept forming wish 
after wish as he ran,—that he were a viper only 
to get trodden on, a thorn to run into some 
one’s foot, a man-trap in the path, even the 
detested bludgeon to miss its aim and break. 
This wish crossed his mind at the propitious - 
moment ; the bull-dog vanished, and the labourer, 


overreaching himself, fell flat on his face, while 


NICK. 173 


his weapon struck deep into the earth, and 
snapped. 

A strict search was instituted after the miss- 
ing dog, but without success. During two 
whole days the village children were exhorted 
to keep indoors and beware of dogs; on the 
third an inoffensive bull pup was hanged, and 
the panic subsided. 

Meanwhile the labourer, with his shattered 
stick, walked home in silent wonder, pondering 
on the mysterious disappearance. But the 
puzzle was beyond his solution; so he only 
made up his mind not to tell his wife the whole 
story till after tea. He found her preparing 
for that meal, the bread and cheese set out, 
and the kettle singing softly on the fire. ‘Here’s 
something to make the kettle boil, mother,’ said 
he, thrusting our hero between the bars and 
seating himself; ‘for I’m mortal tired and 
thirsty.’ 

Nick crackled and blazed away cheerfully, 
throwing out bright sparks, and lighting up 
every corner of the little room. He toasted 
the cheese to a nicety, made the kettle boil 


174 NICK. 


without spilling a drop, set the cat purring with 
comfort, and illuminated the pots and pans into 
splendour. It was provocation enough to be 
burned; but to contribute by his misfortune to 
the well-being of his tormentors was still more 
ageravating. He heard, too, all their remarks 
and wonderment about the supposed mad-dog, 
and saw the doctor’s lady’s own maid bring the 
labourer five shillings as a reward for his exer- 
tions. Then followed a discussion as to what 
should be purchased with the gift, till at last it 
was resolved to have their best window glazed 
with real glass. The prospect of their grandeur 
put the finishing-stroke to Nick’s indignation. 
Sending up a sudden flare, he wished with all his 
might that he were fire to burn the cottage. 
Forthwith the flame leaped higher than ever 
flame leaped before. It played for a moment 
about a ham, and smoked it to a nicety; then, 
fastening on the woodwork above the chimney- 
corner, flashed full into a blaze. The labourer 
ran for help, while his wife, a timid woman, with 
three small children, overturned two pails of 


water on the floor, and set the beer-tap running. 


NICK, 175 


This done, she hurried, wringing her hands, to 
the door, and threw it wide open. The sudden 
draught of air did more mischief than all Nick’s 
malice, and fanned him into quite a conflagra- 
tion. He danced upon the rafters, melted a 
pewter-pot and a pat of butter, licked up the 
beer, and was just making his way towards the ~ 
bedroom, when through the thatch and down 
the chimney came a rush of water. This ar- 
rested his progress for the moment; and before 
he could recover himself, a second and a third 
discharge from the enemy completed his dis- 
comfiture. Reduced ere long to one blue flame, 
and entirely surrounded by a wall of wet ashes, 
Nick sat and smouldered; while the good- 
natured neighbours did their best to remedy the 
mishap,—saved a small remnant of beer, assured 
the labourer that his landlord was certain to do 
the repairs, and observed that the ham would 
eat ‘ beautiful.’ 

Our hero now had leisure for reflection. His 
situation precluded all hope of doing further 
mischief ; and the disagreeable conviction kept 
forcing itself upon his mind that, after all, 


176 NICK, 


he had caused more injury to himself than to 
any of his neighbours. Remembering, too, how 
contemptuously the fairy woman had looked 
and spoken, he began to wonder how he could 
ever have expected to enjoy her gift. Then it 
occurred to him, that if he merely studied his 
own advantage without trying to annoy other 
people, perhaps his persecutor might be pro- 
pitiated ; so he fell to thinking over all his © 
acquaintances, their fortunes and misfortunes ; 
and, having weighed well their several claims 
on his preference, ended by wishing himself 
the rich old man who lived in a handsome 
house just beyond the turnpike. In this wish 
he burned out. - 

The last glimmer had scarcely died away, 
when Nick found himself in a bed hung round 
with faded curtains, and occupying the centre 
of a large room. A night-lamp, burning on 
the chimney-piece, just enabled him to discern 
a few shabby old articles of furniture, a scanty 
carpet, and some writing materials on a table. 
These objects looked somewhat dreary; but for 


his comfort he felt an inward consciousness of a 


NICK. 17% 


goodly money-chest stowed away under his bed, 
and of sundry precious documents hidden in a 
secret cupboard in the wall. 

So he lay very cosily, and listened to the 
clock ticking, the mice squeaking, and the house- 
dog barking down below. This was, however, 
but a drowsy occupation ; and he soon bore 
witness to its somniferous influence by sinking 
into a fantastic dream about his money-chest. 
First, it was broken open, then shipwrecked, 
then burned; lastly, some men in masks, whom 
he knew instinctively to be his own servants, 
began dragging it away. Nick started up, 
clutched hold of something in the dark, found 
his last dream true, and the next moment was 
stretched on the floor—lifeless, yet not insen- 
sible—by a heavy blow from a crowbar. 

The men now proceeded to secure their 
booty, leaving our hero where he fell. They 
carried off the chest, broke open and ransacked 
the secret closet, overturned the furniture, to 
make sure that no hiding-place of treasure 
escaped them, and at length, whispering to- 
gether, left the room. Nick felt quite dis- 

N 


178 NICK. 


couraged by his ill success, and now entertained 
only one wish—that he were himself again. 
Yet even this wish gave him some anxiety ; 
for he feared that if the servants returned and 
found him in his original shape they might 
take him for a spy, and murder him in down- 
right earnest. While he lay thus cogitating 
two of the men reappeared, bearing a shutter 
and some tools. They lifted him up, laid him 
on the shutter, and carried him out of the 
room, down the back-stairs, through a long 
vaulted passage, into the open air. No word 
was spoken; but Nick knew they were going 
to bury him. | 

An utter horror seized him, while, at the 
same time, he felt a strange consciousness that 
his hair would not stand on end because he 
was dead. The men set him down, and began 
in silence to dig his grave. It was soon ready 
to receive him; they threw the body roughly 
in, and cast upon it the first shovelful of earth. 

But the moment of deliverance had arrived. 
His wish suddenly found vent in a prolonged 
unearthly yell. Damp with night dew, pale 


NICK. 179 


as death, and shivering from head to foot, 
he sat bolt upright, with starting, staring eyes 
and chattering teeth. The murderers, in mortal 
fear, cast down their tools, plunged deep into 
a wood hard by, and were never heard of 
more. 

Under cover of night Nick made the best 
of his way home, silent and pondering. Next 
morning he gave Giles Hodge a rare tulip- 
root, with full directions for rearing it; he 
sent the doctor’s wife a Persian cat twice the 
size of her lost pet; the labourer’s cottage 
was repaired, his window glazed, and his beer- 
barrel replaced by unknown agency; and when 
a vague rumour reached the village that the 
miser was dead, that his ghost had been heard 
bemoaning itself, and that all his treasures had 
been carried off, our hero was one of the few 
persons who did not say, ‘And served him 
right, too.’ 

Finally, Nick was never again heard to 


utter a wish. 





HERO.) 


Pee AMOR PTOSLS, = 





HERO. 


‘Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us!’ 
BURNS. 


IF you consult the authentic map of Fairy- 
land (recently published by Messrs. Moon, Shine, 
and Co.) you will notice that the emerald- 
green line which indicates its territorial limit, 
is washed towards the south by a bold ex- 
panse of sea, undotted by either rocks or 
islands. To the north-west it touches the 
work-a-day world, yet is effectually barricaded 
against intruders by an impassable chain of 
mountains; which, enriched throughout with 
mines of gems and metals, presents on Man- 
side a leaden sameness of hue, but on Elf- 


side glitters with diamonds and opals as with 


184 HERO. 


ten thousand fire-flies. The greater portion 
of the west frontier is, however, bounded, not 
by these mountains, but by an arm of the 
sea, which forms a natural barrier between 
the two countries; its eastern shore peopled 
by good folks and canny neighbours, gay 
sprites, graceful fairies, and sportive elves; its 
western by a bold tribe of semi-barbarous 
fishermen. 

Nor was it without reason that the first 
settlers selected this fishing-field, and continued 
to occupy it, though generation after gener- 
ation they lived and died almost isolated. Their 
swift, white-sailed boats ever bore the most ~ 
delicate freights of fish to the markets of 
Outerworld—and not of fish only; many a 
waif and stray from Fairyland washed ashore 
amongst them. Now a fiery carbuncle blazed 
upon the sand; now a curiously-wrought ball 
of gold or ivory was found imbedded amongst 
the pebbles. Sometimes a sunny wave threw 
up a_ rose-coloured winged shell or jewelled 
starfish ; sometimes a branch of unfading sea- 


weed, exquisitely perfumed. But though these 


HERO, 185 


treasures, when once secured, could be offered 
for sale and purchased by all alike, they were 
never, in the first instance, discovered except 
by children or innocent young maidens; in- 
deed, this fact was of such invariable occurrence, 
and children were so fortunate in treasure- 
finding, that a bluff mariner would often, on 
returning home empty-handed from his day’s 
toil, despatch his little son or daughter to 
a certain sheltered stretch of shingle, which 
went by the name of ‘the children’s harvest- 
field; hoping by such means to repair his 
failure. 

Amongst this race of fishermen was none 
more courageous, hospitable, and free-spoken 
than Peter Grump the widower; amongst their 
daughters was none more graceful and pure 
than his only child Hero, beautiful, lively, 
tender-hearted, and fifteen; the pet of her 
father, the pride of her neighbours, and the 
true love of Forss, as sturdy .a young fellow 
as ever cast a net in. deep water, or rowed 
against wind and tide for dear life. 

One afternoon Hero, rosy through the splash- 


186 HERO. 


ing spray and sea-wind, ran home full-handed 
from the harvest-field. 

‘See here, father!’ she cried, eagerly de- 
positing a string of sparkling red beads upon 
the table: ‘see, are they not beautiful ?’ 

Peter Grump examined them carefully, hold- 
ing each bead up to the light, and weighing 
them in his hand. 

‘Beautiful indeed!’ echoed Forss, who un-_ 
noticed, at least by the elder, had followed Hero 
into the cottage. ‘Ah, if I had a sister to find 
me fairy treasures, I would take the three 
months’ long journey to the best market of 
Outerworld, and make my fortune there.’ 

‘Then you would rather go the three months’ 
journey into Outerworld than come every even- 
ing to my father’s cottage?’ said Hero, shyly. 

‘Truly I would go to Outerworld first, 
and come to you afterwards,’ her lover an- 
swered, with a smile; for he thought how 
speedily on his return he would have a tight 
house of his own, and a fair young wife, too. 

‘Father, said Hero presently, ‘if, instead 
of gifts coming now and then to us, I could 


HERO. | 187 


go to Giftland and grow rich there, would 
you fret after me?’ 

_ * Truly,’ answered honest Peter, ‘if you can 
go and be Queen of Fairyland, I will not 
keep you back from such eminence; for he 
thought, ‘my darling jests; no one ever tra- 
versed those mountains or that inland sea, and 
how should her little feet cross over?’ 

But Hero, who could not read their hearts, 
said within herself, ‘They do not love me as 
I love them. Father should not leave me 
to be fifty kings; and I would not leave Forss 
to go to Fairyland, much less Outerworld.’ 

Yet from that day forward’ Hero -was 
changed ; their love no longer seemed sufficient 
for her; she sought after other love and other 
admiration. Once a lily was ample head-dress, 
now she would heighten her complexion with 
a wreath of gorgeous blossoms; once it was 
enough that Peter and Forss should be pleased 
with her, now she grudged any man’s notice 
to her fellow-maidens. Stung by supposed in- 
difference, she suffered disappointment to make 
her selfish, Her face, always beautiful, lost 


188 | HERO. 


its expression of gay sweetness; her temper 
became capricious, and instead of cheerful airs 
she would sing snatches of plaintive or bitter 
songs. Her father looked anxious, her lover 
sad; both endeavoured, by the most patient 
tenderness, to win her back to her former 
self; but a weight lay on their hearts when 
they noticed that she no longer brought home 
fairy treasures, and remembered that such could 
be found only by the innocent. 

One evening Hero, sick alike of herself and 
of others, slipped unnoticed from the cottage, 
and wandered seawards. Though the moon 
had not, yet risen, she could see her way 
distinctly, for all Fairycoast flashed one blaze 
of splendour. A soft wind bore to Hero the 
hum of distant instruments and songs, mingled 
with ringing laughter; and she thought, full 
of curiosity, that some festival must be going 
on amongst the little people; perhaps a wed- 
ding. 

Suddenly the music ceased, the lights danced 
up and down, ran to and fro, clambered here 


and there, skurried round and round with ir- 


HERO. 189 


regular precipitate haste, while the laughter 
was succeeded by fitful sounds of lamentation 
and fear. Hero fancied some precious thing 
must have been lost, and that a minute search 
was going on. For hours the commotion con- 
_tinued, then gradually, spark by spark, the 
blaze died out, and all seemed once more quiet ; 
yet still the low wail of sorrow was audible. 

Weary at length of watching, Hero arose; 
and was just about to turn homewards, when — 
a noisy, vigorous wave leaped ashore, and de- 
posited something shining at her feet. 

She stooped. What could it be? 7 

It was a broad, luminous shell, fitted. up 
with pillows and an awning. On the pillows 
and under the scented canopy lay fast asleep 
a little creature, butterfly-winged and coloured 
like a rose-leaf. The fish who should have 
piloted her had apparently perished at his 
post, some portion of his pulp still cleaving 
to the shell’s fluted lip; while unconscious of 
her faithful adherent’s fate, rocked by wind 
and wave, the Princess Royal of Fairyland 
had floated fast asleep to Man-side. Her dis- 


190 HERO. 


appearance it was which had occasioned such 
painful commotion amongst her family and 
affectionate lieges; but all their lamentations 
failed to rouse her; and not till the motion 
of the water ceased did she awake to find 
herself, vessel and all, cradled in the hands of 
Hero. 

During some moments the two stared at 
each other in silent amazement; then a sus- 
-picion of the truth flashing across her mind, 
Princess Fay sat upright on her couch and 
spoke,— 

‘What gift shall I give you that so I may 
return to my home in peace?’ 

For an instant Hero would have answered, 
‘Give me the love of Forss; but pride checked 
the words, and she said, ‘Grant me, wherever 
I am, to become the supreme object of ad- 
miration.’ 

Princess Fay smiled, ‘As you will,’ said 
she; ‘but to effect this you must come with 
me to my country.’ 

Then, whilst Hero looked round for some 


road which mortal feet might traverse, Fay 


HERO. I9I 


uttered a low, bird-like call. A slight froth- 
ing ensued, at the water’s edge, close to the 
shingle, whilst one by one mild, scaly faces 
peered above the surface, and vigorous tails 
propelled their owners. Next, three strong 
fishes combining themselves into a raft, Hero 
seated herself on the centre back, and hold- 
ing fast her little captive, launched out upon 
the water. 

Soon they passed beyond where mortal sailor 
had ever navigated, and explored the unknown 
sea. Strange forms of seals and porpoises, 
marine snails and unicorns contemplated them 
with surprise, followed reverentially in their 
wake, and watched them safe ashore. 

But on Hero their curious ways were lost, 
so absorbed was she by ambitious longings. 
Even after landing, to her it seemed nothing 
that her feet trod on sapphires, and that both 
birds and fairies made their nests in the ad- 
jacent trees. Blinded, deafened, stultified by 
self, she passed unmoved through crystal streets, 
between fountains of rainbow, along corridors 


carpeted with butterflies’ wings, up a staircase 


192 HERO. 


formed from a single tusk, into the opal pre- 
sence-chamber, even to the foot of the carnelian 
dormouse on which sat enthroned Queen Fairy. 

Till the Queen said, ‘What gift shall I give 
you, that so my child may be free from you 
and we at peace?’ . 

Then again Hero answered, ‘Grant me, 
wherever I am, to become the supreme object 
of admiration.’ 

Thereat a hum and buzz of conflicting 
voices ran through the apartment. The im- 
mutable statutes of Fairycourt enacted that 
no captured fairy could be set free except 
at the price named by the captor; from this 
necessity not even the blood-royal was exempt, 
so that the case was very urgent; on the 
other hand, the beauty of Hero, her extreme 
youth, and a certain indignant sorrow which 
spoke in her every look and tone, had enlisted 
such sympathy on her side as made the pigmy 
nation loth to endow her with the perilous pre- 
eminence she demanded. 

‘Clear the court) shrilled the usher of the 
golden rod, an alert elf, green like a grasshopper. 


HERO. 193 


Amid the crowd of non-voters Hero, bearing 
her august prisoner, retired from the throne- 
room. 

When recalled to the assembly an imposing 
silence reigned, which was almost instantly 
broken by the Queen. ‘ Maiden, she said, ‘it 
cannot be but that the dear ransom of my 
daughter’s liberty must be paid. I grant you, 
wherever you may appear, to become the su- 
preme object of admiration. In you every man 
shall find his taste satisfied. In you one shall 
recognise his ideal of loveliness, another shall 
bow before the impersonation of dignity. One 
shall be thrilled by your voice, another fascin- 
ated by your wit and inimitable grace. He who 
prefers colour shall dwell upon your complexion, 
hair, eyes; he who worships intellect shall find 
in you his superior ; he who is ambitious shall 
feel you to be a prize more august than an 
empire. I cannot ennoble the taste of those 
who look upon you: I can but cause that in you 
_all desire shall be gratified. If sometimes you 
chafe under a trivial homage, if sometimes you 
are admired rather for what you have than for 

O 


194 HERO. 


what you are, accuse your votaries,—accuse, if 
you will, yourself, but accuse not me. In con- 
sideration, however, of your utter inexperience, 
I and my trusty counsellors have agreed for one 
year to retain your body here, whilst in spirit 
you at will become one with the reigning object 
of admiration. If at the end of the year you 
return to claim this pre-eminence as your own 
proper attribute, it shall then be unconditionally 
sranted : if, on the contrary, you then or even 
sooner desire to be released from a gift whose 
sweetness is alloyed by you know not how 
much of bitter shortcoming and disappointment, 
return, and you shall at once be relieved of a 
burden you cannot yet estimate.’ 

So Hero quitted the presence, led by spirits 
to a pleasance screened off into a perpetual 
twilight. Here, on a rippling lake, blossomed 
lilies. She lay down among their broad leaves 
and cups, cradled by their interlaced stems, 
rocked by warm winds on the rocking water ; 
she lay till the splash of fountains, and the chirp 
of nestlings, and the whisper of spiced breezes, 


and the chanted monotone of an innumerable. 


HERO. 195 


choir, lulled to sleep her soul, lulled to rest her 
tumultuous heart, charmed her conscious spirit 
into a heavy blazing diamond,—a glory by day, 
a lamp by night, and a world’s wonder at all 
times. 

Let us leave the fair body at rest, and crowned 
with lilies, to follow the restless spirit, shrined 
in a jewel, and cast ashore on Man-side. 

No sooner was this incomparable diamond 
picked up and carried home than Hero’s darling 
wish was gratified. She outshone every beauty, 
._ she eclipsed the most brilliant eyes of the colony. 
For a moment the choicest friend was super- 
seded, the dearest mistress overlooked. For a 
moment—and this outstripped her desire — 
Peter Grump forgot his lost daughter and Forss 
his lost love. Soon greedy admiration developed 
into greedy strife: her spark kindled a con- 
flagration. This gem, in itself an unprecedented 
fortune, should this gem remain the property of 
a defenceless orphan to whom mere chance had 
assigned it? From her it was torn in a moment: 
then the stronger wrested it from the strong, 


blows revenged blows, until, as the last con- 


196 HERO. 


tender bit the dust in convulsive death, the 
victor, feared throughout the settlement for his 
brute strength and brutal habits, bore off the 
prize toward the best market of Outerworld. 

It irked Hero to’ nestle in that polluted 
bosom and count the beatings of that sordid 
heart ; but when, at the end of the three months’ 
long journey, she found herself in a guarded 
booth, enthroned on a cushion of black velvet, 
by day blazing even in the full sunshine, by 
night needing no lamp save her own lustre; 
when she heard the sums running up from thou- 
sands into millions which whole guilds of jewellers, 
whole caravans of merchant princes, whole royal 
families clubbed their resources to offer for her 
purchase, it outweighed all she had undergone 
of disgust and tedium. Finally, two empires, 
between which a marriage was about to be con- 
tracted and a peace ratified, outbid all rivals 
and secured the prize. 

Princess Lily, the august bride-elect, was 
celebrated far and near for courteous manners 
and delicate beauty. Her refusal was more 


gracious, her reserve more winning, than the 


HERO. 197 


acquiescence or frankness of another. She might 
have been more admired, or even envied, had 
she been less loved. If she sang, her hearers 
loved her; if she danced, the lookers-on loved 
her; thus love forestalled admiration, and happy 
in the one she never missed the other. 

Only on her wedding-day, for the first time, 
she excited envy ; for in her coronet appeared 
the inestimable jewel, encircling her sweet face 
with a halo of splendour. Hero eclipsed the 
bride, dazzled the bridegroom, distracted the 
queen-mother, and thrilled the whole assembly. _ 
Through all the public solemnities of the day 
Hero reigned supreme: and when, the state 
parade being at length over, Lily unclasped her 
gems and laid aside her cumbrous coronet, 
Hero was handled with more reverential tender- 
ness than her mistress. 

The bride leaned over her casket of treasures 
and gazed at the inestimable diamond. ‘Is it 
not magnificent ?’? whispered she. 

‘What?’ said the bridegroom: ‘I was look- 
at you.” 

So Lily flushed up with delight, and Hero 


198 HERO. 


experienced a shock. Next the diamond shot 
up one ray of dazzling momentary lustre; then 
lost its supernatural brilliancy, as Hero quitted 
the gem for the heart of Lily. 

Etiquette required that the young couple 
should for some days remain in strict retire- 
ment. Hero now found herself in a secluded 
palace, screened by the growth of many centuries. 
She was waited on by twenty bridesmaids only 
less noble than their princess; she was wor- 
shipped by her bridegroom and reflected by a 
hundred mirrors. In Lily’s pure heart she 
almost found rest: and when the young prince, 
at dawn, or lazy noon, or mysterious twilight— 
for indeed the process went on every day and 
all day—praised his love’s eyes, or hair, or 
voice, or movements, Hero thought with proud 
eagerness of the moment when, in her own 
proper person, she might claim undisputed pre- 
eminence. 

The prescribed seclusion, however, drew to a 
close, and the royal pair must make their en- 
trance on public life. Their entrance coincided 
with another’s exit. 


HERO. 199 


Melice Rapta had for three successive seasons 
thrilled the world by her voice, and subdued it 
by her loveliness. She possessed the demeanour 
of an empress, and the winning simplicity of a 
child, genius and modesty, tenderness and in- 
domitable will. Her early years had passed in 
obscurity, subject to neglect, if not unkindness ; 
it was only when approaching womanhood 
developed and matured her gifts that she met 
with wealthy protectors and assumed their 
name: for Melice was a foundling. 

No sooner, however, did her world-wide 
fame place large resources at her command, 
than she anxiously sought to trace her unknown 
parentage; and, at length, discovered that her 
high-born father and plebeian mother—herself 
sole fruit of their concealed marriage—were 
dead. Once made known to her kindred, she 
was eagerly acknowledged by them; but reject- 
ing more brilliant offers, she chose to withdraw 
into a private sphere, and fix her residence 
with a maternal uncle, who, long past the 
meridian of life, devoted his energies to bo- 


tanical research and culture. 


200 HERO. 


So, on the same evening, Lily and her hus- 
band entered on their public duties, and Melice 
took leave for ever of a nation of admirers. 

When the prince and princess appeared in 
the theatre, the whole house stood up, answering 
their smiles and blushes by acclamations of 
welcome. They took their places on chairs 
of state under an emblazoned canopy, and the 
performance commenced. 

A moonless night: three transparent ghosts 
flit across the scene, bearing in their bosoms 
unborn souls. They leave behind tracks of 
light from which are generated arums. Day 
breaks—Melice enters; she washes her hands 
in a fountain, singing to the splash of the 
water; she plucks arums, and begins weaving 
them into a garland, still singing. 

Lily bent forward to whisper something to 
her husband ; but he raised his hand, enforcing 
‘Hush!’ as through eyes and ears his soul drank 
deep of beauty. The young wife leaned back 
with good-humoured acquiescence; but Hero? 

In another moment Hero was singing in 


the unrivalled songstress, charrhing and subduing 


HERO. 201 


every heart. The play proceeded ; its incidents, 
its characters developed. Melice outshone, out- 
sang herself; warbling like a bird, thrilling 
with entreaty, pouring forth her soul in passion. 
Her voice commanded an enthusiastic silence, 
her silence drew down thunders of enthusiastic 
applause. She acknowledged the honour with 
majestic courtesy; then, for the first time, 
trembled, changed colour: would have swept 
from the presence like a queen, but merely 
wept like a woman. 

It was her hour of supreme triumph. 

Next day she set out for her uncle’s resi- 
dence, her own selected home. 

Many a long day’s journey separated her 
from her mother’s village, and her transit thither 
assumed the aspect of a ceremonial progress. 
At every town on her route orations and em- 
blems awaited her; whilst from the capital 
she was quitting, came, pursuing her, messages’ 
of farewell, congratulation, entreaty. Often an 
unknown cavalier rode beside her carriage some 
stage of the journey; often a high-born lady 
met her on the road, and, taking a last view 


202 HERO. 


of her countenance, obtained a few more last 
words from the most musical mouth in the 
world. 

At length the goal was reached. The small 
cottage, surrounded by its disproportionately 
extensive garden, was there; the complex for- 
cing-houses, pits, refrigerators, were there ; Uncle 
Treeh was there, standing at the open door - 
to receive his newly-found relative. 

Uncle Treeh was rather old, rather short, 
not handsome; with an acute eye, a sensitive 
mouth, and spectacles. With his complexion 
of sere brown, and his scattered threads of white 
hair, he strikingly resembled certain plants of 
the cactus tribe, which, in their turn, resemble 
withered old men. 

All his kind. face brightened with welcome 
as he kissed his fair niece; and led her into 
his sitting-room. On the table were spread 
for her refreshment the choicest products of 
his gardens: ponderous pine-apples, hundred- 
berried vine clusters, currants large as grapes 
and sweet as honey. For a moment his eyes 


dwelt on a human countenance with more 


HERO. 203 


admiration than on a vegetable; for a moment, 
on comparing Melice’s complexion with an ole- 
ander, he awarded the palm to the former. 

But a week afterwards, when Melice, lean- 
ing over his shoulder, threatened to read what 
he was writing, Treeh looked good-naturedly 
conscious, and, abandoning the letter to her 
mercy, made his escape into a neighbouring 


conservatory. 
She read as follows :— 


My Friend,— 
You will doubtless have learned how - 

my solitude has been invaded by my sister’s 
long-lost daughter, a peach-coloured damsel, 
with commeline eyes, and hair darker than 
chestnuts. For one whole evening I suspended 
my beloved toils and devoted myself to her: 
alas! next day, on revisiting Lime Alley, 
house B, pot 37, I found that during my ab- 
sence a surreptitious slug had devoured three 
shoots of a tea-rose. Thus nipped in the bud, 
my cherished nursling seemed to upbraid me 
with neglect; and so great was my vexation, 


204 HERO. 


that, on returning to company, I could scarcely 
conceal it. From that hour I resolved that | 
no mistaken notions of hospitality should ever 
again seduce me from the true aim of my 
existence. Nerved by this resolution, I once 
more take courage; and now write to inform 
you that I am in hourly expectation of be- 
holding pierce the soil (loam, drenched with 
liquid manure) the first sprout from that un- 
named alien seed, which was brought to our 
market, three months ago, by a seafaring man 
of semi-barbarous aspect. I break off to visit 


my hoped-for seedling. 


At this moment the door, hastily flung 
open, startled Melice, who, looking up, beheld 
Treeh, radiant and rejoicing, a flowerpot in 
his hand. He hurried up to her, and, setting 
his load on the table, sank upon his knees. 
“Look P ‘he’ cried, 

‘Why, uncle,’ rejoined Melice, when curious 
examination revealed to her eyes a minute living 
point of green, ‘this marvel quite eclipses me!’ 


A pang of humiliation shot through Hero, 


. 


HERO. 208 


an instantaneous sharp pang; the next moment 
she was burrowing beneath the soil in the 
thirsty sucking roots of a plant not one-eighth 
of an inch high. 

Day by day she grew, watched by an eye 
unwearied as that of a lover. The green sheath 
expanded fold after fold, till from it emerged 
a crumpled leaf, downy and notched. How was 
this first-born of an unknown race tended ; 
how did fumigations rout its infinitesimal foes, 
whilst circles of quicklime barricaded it against 
the invasion of snails! It throve vigorously, 
adding leaf to leaf and shoot to shoot: at . 
length, a minute furry-bud appeared. 

Uncle Treeh, the most devoted of foster- 
fathers, revelled in ecstasy; yet it seemed to 
Hero that his step was becoming feebler, and 
his hand more tremulous. One morning he 
waited on her as usual, but appeared out of 
breath and unsteady: gradually he bent more 
and more forward, till, without removing his 
eyes from the cherished plant, he sank huddled 
on the conservatory floor. 

Three hours afterwards hurried steps and 


206 HERO. 


anxious faces sought the old man. There, on 
the accustomed spot, he lay, shrunk together, 
cold, dead ; his glazed eyes still riveted on his 
favourite nursling. 

They carried away the corpse —could Treeh 
have spoken he would have begged to lie where 
a delicate vine might suck nourishment from his 
remains—and buried it a mile away from the 
familiar garden; but no one had the heart to 
crush him beneath a stone. The earth lay 
lightly upon him; and though his bed was 
unvisited by one who would have tended it— 
for Melice, now a wife, had crossed the sea 
to a distant home—generations of unbidden 
flowers, planted by winds and birds, blossomed 
there. 

During one whole week Hero and her peers 
dwelt in solitude, uncared for save by a mournful 
gardener, who loved and cherished the vegetable 
family for their old master’s sake. But on the 
eighth day came a change: all things were 
furbished.up, and assumed their most festive 
aspect; for the new owners were hourly ex- 


pected. 


HERO. 207 


The door opened. A magnificently attired 
lady, followed by two children and a secondary 
husband, sailed into the narrow passage, casting 
down with her robe several flower-pots. She 
glanced around with a superior air, and was 
about to quit the scene without a word, when 
the gardener ventured to remark, ‘Several very 
rare plants, madam.’ 

‘Yes, yes,’ she cried, ‘we knew his eccentric 
tastes, poor dear old man!’ and stepped door- 
wards. 

One more effort: ‘This madam,’ indicating 
Hero, ‘is a specimen quite unique.’ 

‘Really,’ said she; and observed to her 
husband as she left the house, ‘ These use- 
less buildings must be cleared away. This 
will be the exact spot for a ruin: I adore a 
ruin |’ 

A ruin ?—Hero’s spirit died in the slighted 
plant. Was it to such taste as this she must 
condescend? such admiration as this she must 
court? Merely to receive it would be humilia- 
tion. A passionate longing for the old lost life, 
the old beloved love, seized her; she grew 


208 ; IIERO. 


tremulous, numbed: ‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘this 
is death !’ 


A hum, a buzz, voices singing and speaking, 
the splash of fountains, airy laughter, rustling 
wings, the noise of a thousand leaves and flower- 
cups in commotion. Sparks dancing in the 
twilight, dancing feet, joy and triumph; unseen 
hands loosing succous, interlacing stalks from 
their roots beneath the water; towing a lily-raft 
across the lake, down a tortuous inland creek, 
through Fairy-harbour, out into the open sea. 

On the lily-raft lay Hero, crowned with 
lilies, at rest. A swift tide was running from 
Fairycoast to- Man-side: every wave heaving 
her to its silver crest bore her homewards; every 
wind whistling from the shore urged her home- 
wards. Seals and unicorns dived on either 
hand, unnoticed. All the tumbling porpoises 
in the ocean could not have caught her eye. 

At length, the moon-track crossed, she 
entered the navigable sea. There all was cold, 
tedious, dark; not a vessel in sight, not a living 
sound audible. She floated farther: something 


HERO. 209 


black loomed through the obscurity; could it 
be a boat? yes, it was certainly a distant boat; 
then she perceived a net lowered into the water ; 
then saw two fishermen kindle a fire, and pre- 
pare themselves to wait, it might be for hours. 
Their forms thrown out against the glare struck 
Hero as familiar: that old man, stooping more 
than his former wont; that other strong and 
active figure, not so broad as in days of yore ;— 
Hero’s heart beat painfully : did they remember 
yet? did they love yet? was it yet time? 
Nearer and nearer she floated, nearer and 
nearer. The men were wakeful, restless; they 
stirred the embers into a blaze, and sat waiting. 
Then softly and sadly arose the sound of a 


boat-song :— 


PETER GRUMP. 


If underneath the water ~ 
You comb your golden hair 
With a golden comb, my daughter, 
Oh, would that I were there. 
If underneath the wave 
You fill a slimy grave, 
Would that I, who could not save, 
Might share. 
RS: 


210 HERO. 


FORSS. 


If my love Hero queens it 
In summer Fairyland, 
What would I be 
But the ring on her hand? 

Her cheek when she leans it 
Would lean on me :— 

Or sweet, bitter-sweet, 

The flower that she wore 

When we parted, to meet 
On the hither shore 
Anymore? nevermore. 


Something caught Forss’s eye; he tried the 
nets, and finding them heavily burdened began 
to haul them in, saying, ‘It is a shoal of white 
fish ; no, a drift of white seaweed ;—but sud- 
denly he cried out: ‘Help, old father! it is a 
corpse, as white as snow!’ 

Peter ran to the nets, and with the younger 
man’s aid rapidly drew themin. Hero lay quite 
still, while very gently they lifted the body over 
the boat-side, whispering one to another: ‘It 
is a woman—she is dead!’ They laid her down 
where the fire-light shone full upon her face— 
her familiar face. 


Not a corpse, O Peter Grump: not a corpse, 


HERO. 211 


O true Forss, staggering as from a death-blow. 
The eyes opened, the face dimpled into a happy 
smile; with tears, and clinging arms, and cling- 
ing kisses, Hero begged forgiveness of her father 
and her lover. 

I will not tell you of the questions asked 
and answered, the return home, the wonder and 
_ joy which spread like wildfire through the 
colony. Nor how in the moonlight Forss wooed 
and won his fair love; nor even how at the 
wedding danced a band of strangers, gay and 


agile, recognised by none save the bride. I 


will merely tell you how in after years, sitting ° 


by her husband’s fireside, or watching on the 
shingle for his return, Hero would speak to her 
children of her, own early days. And when 
their eyes kindled while she told of the mar- 
vellous splendour of Fairyland, she would assure 
them, with a convincing smile, that only home 
is happy: and when, with flushed cheeks and 
quickened breath, they followed the story of her 
brief pre-eminence, she would add, that though 
admiration seems sweet at first, only love is 


sweet first, and last, and always. 





&2 





VANNA’S TWINS. 





ah 








VANNA’S TWINS. 





THERE I stood on the platform at H , girt 
by my three boxes, one carpet-bag, strapful 
of shawls and bundle of umbrellas; there I 
stood, with a courteous station-master and two 
civil porters assuring me that not one lodging © 
was vacant throughout H——. At another 
time such an announcement might not have 
greatly signified, for London, whence I came, 
was less than three hours off; but on this par- 
ticular occasion it did matter because I was 
weakened by recent illness, the journey down 
had shaken me, I was hungry and thirsty 
for my tea, and, through fear of catching cold, 
I had wrapped up overmuch; so that when 
those polite officials stated that they could 


216 VANNA’S TWINS. 


not point out a lodging for me I felt more 
inclined to cry than I hope anybody sus- 
pected. One of the porters, noticing how pale 
and weak I looked, good-naturedly volunteered 
to go to the three best hotels, and see whether 
in one of them, I could be housed for the 
moment; and though the expensiveness of such 
a plan secretly dismayed me, I saw nothing 
better than to accept his offer. Meanwhile, 
I retreated into the waiting-room wishing him 
success ; but wondering, should he not succeed, 
what would become of me for the night. 

Happily for me, my troubles were not 
aggravated by imaginary difficulties. I was 
turned forty-five, and looked not a day younger ; 
an age at which there is nothing alarming 
in finding oneself alone in a strange place, 
or compelled to take a night journey by rail. 
So I sat on the waiting-room sofa, shut my 
eyes to ease, if possible, a racking headache, 
and made up my mind that, at the worst, 
I could always take the mail-train back to 
London. 

After all, I had not long to wait. Within 


VANNA’S TWINS. 21y 


ten minutes of leaving me my porter returned 
with the news that, if I did not mind a very 
unfashionable, but quite respectable, quarter of 
H—, he had just heard of a first floor 
vacated half-an-hour before my arrival, and 
tency, if) pleased, to receive me. J merely 
asked, was it clean? and being assured that 
there was not a tidier young woman in all 
H—— than ‘Fanny,’ that her husband was 
a decent optician and stone-cutter, and that 
for cleanliness any of their floors might be 
eaten off, I felt only too thankful to step 
into a fly, and accompany my boxes to an 
abiding place. Before starting, I happened 
_to ask the name of my landlord, and was 
answered, somewhat vaguely, by my porter, 
‘We-cail them: Cole.’ 

The report of a coming lodger had travelled 
before me, and I found Mr. Cole and his 
Fanny awaiting me at their shop-door. But 
what a Mr. Cole and what a Fanny. He 
was a tall, stout foreigner, about thirty years 
of age, ready with tucked-up shirt-sleeves and 


athletic arms to bear my boxes aloft; she 


218 VANNA’S TWINS. 


was the comeliest of young matrons, her whole 
face one smile, her ears adorned by weighty 
gold pendents, and with an obvious twin baby 
borne in each arm. Husband and wife alike 
addressed me as ‘Meess,’ and displayed teeth 
of an enviable regularity and whiteness as they 
smiled or spoke. Thus much I saw at a first 
glance. 

Too tired for curiosity, I toiled up the 
narrow staircase after my boxes, washed my 
dusty face and hot hands, and stepped into 
my little sitting-room, intending to lie down 
on the sofa, and wait as patiently as might 
be whilst tea, which I had already ordered, 
was got ready. A pleasant surprise met me. 
I suppose the good-natured porter may have 
forewarned Mr. Cole of my weakness and wants ; 
be this as it may, there stood the tea ready 
brewed, and flanked by pats of butter, small 
rolls, a rasher, and three eggs wrapped up 
in a clean napkin. After this, my crowning 
pleasure for the day was to step into a bed 
soft as down could make it, and drop to 


sleep between sheets fragrant of lavender. 


VANNA’S TWINS. 219 


A few days’ convalescence at H—— did 
more for me than as many weeks’ convalescence 
in London had effected. Soon I strolled about 
the beach without numbering the breakwaters, 
or along the country roads, taking no count 
of the milestones; and went home to meals 
as hungry as a school-girl, and slept at nights 
like a baby. One of my earliest street-dis- 
coveries was that my landlord’s name, as in- 
scribed over his window, was not Cole, but 
Cola (Nicola) Piccirillo ; and a very brief sojourn 
under his roof instructed me that the Fanny 
of my friend the porter was called Vanna 
(Giovanna) by her husband. They were both 
Neapolitans of the ex-kingdom, though not 
of the city, of Naples; whenever I asked either 
of them after the name of their native place, 
they invariably answered me in a tone of 
endearment, by what sounded more like ‘Va- 
scitammd’ than aught else I know how to 
spell; but when my English tongue uttered 
‘Vascitammo’ after them, they would shake 
their heads and repeat the uncatchable word; 
at last it grew to be a standing joke between 


220 VANNA’S TWINS. 


us that when I became a millionnaire my 
courier Cola and my maid Vanna should take 
the twins and me to see Vascitammo. 

I never thought of changing my lodgings, 
though, as time went on, it would have been 
easy to do so, and certainly the quarter we 
inhabited was not fashionable. A _ laborious, 
not an idle, community environed our doors 
and furnished customers to the shop: it was 
some time before I discovered that Jlamico 
Piccirillo held a store for polished stones and 
marine curiosities in the bazaar of H——. 
He liked to be styled an optician ; but whilst 
he sold and repaired spectacles, driving a pros- 
perous trade amongst the fishing population 
who surrounded us, and supplying them with 
cheap telescopes, compasses, and an occasional 
magic-lantern, he was not too proud to eke 
out his gains by picking up and preparing 
marine oddities, pebbles, or weeds. After we 
became intimate I more than once rose at three 
or four in the morning, as the turn of the tide 
dictated; and accompanied him on a ramble of 


exploration. He scrambled about slippery, 


VANNA’S TWINS. B07 


jagged rocks as sure-footed as a wild goat; and 
if ever my climbing powers failed at some critical 
pass, thought nothing of lifting me over the 
difficulty, with that courteous familiarity which, 
in an Italian, does not cease to be respectful. 
I was rather lucky in spying eligible stones, 
which I contributed to his basket; and then, 
when we got home, he would point out to 
his wife what ‘da Signora’ had found ‘ger 
mot due e per li piccine. I understood a 
little Italian and they a little English, so we 
generally, in spite of the Neapolitan blurring 
accent, made out each other’s meaning. 
Vanna was one of the prettiest women I 
ever saw, if indeed I ought ‘to term merely 
pretty a face which, with good features, contained 
eyes softer and more lustrous than any others 
I remember; their colour I never made out, 
but when she lowered the large eyelids, their 
long black lashes seemed to throw half her 
face into shadow. I don’t know that she 
was .clever except. as a housewife, but in this 
capacity she excelled, and was a dainty cook 


over her shining pots and pans: her husband’s 


25>? VANNA’S TWINS. 


‘due maccheroni’ often set me hankering, as 
I spied them done to a turn and smoking 
hot ; though I confess that when Cola brought 
home a cuttle-fish and I saw it dished up as 
a ‘calamarello’ my English prejudice asserted 
itself. 

‘Mr. and Mrs. Cole’ were unique in my 
small experience of people, but surely the 
twins must have remained unique in anybody’s 
experience. What other babies were ever so 
fat or so merry? To see their creased arms 
was enough till one saw their creased legs, 
and then their arms grew commonplace. I 
never once heard them cry: a clothes-basket 
formed their primitive bassinette, and there 
they would sprawl, tickling each other and 
chuckling. They chuckled at their father, 
mother, myself, or any stranger who would 
toss them, or poke a finger into their cushions 
of fat. They crowed over their own teeth- 
ing, and before they could speak seemed to 
bandy. intuitive jokes, and chuckled in concert. 
Well were they named Felice Maria and Maria 


Gioconda. At first sight, they were utterly 


VANNA’S TWINS. 222 


indistinguishable apart; but experiment proved 
that Felice was a trifle heavier than his sister, 
and that fingers could go a hair’s-breadth farther 
round her fat waist than round his. When I 
made their acquaintance their heads were thickly 
plaistered with that scurf which apparently an 
Italian custom leaves undisturbed; but as this 
wore off, curly, black down took its place, and 
balanced the large, dark eyes and silky eyebrows 
and lashes, which both inherited from their 
mother. What we, in our insularity, term the 
English love of soap and water was shared 
by Vanna, and it was one of my amusements 
to see the twins in their tub. Often, if hastily 
summoned to serve behind the counter, Vanna 
would leave them in the tub to splash about, 
and throw each other down and pick each 
other up, for a quarter of an hour together; and 
if I hinted that this might not be perfectly 
safe for them, she invariably assured me that 
in her ‘paese’ all the babies toddled about 
the shore, and into the sea and out again so 
soon as ever they could toddle. ‘4 che male 


vt potrebb essere? non vi son coccodrili.’ an 


224 VANNA’S TWINS. 


argument no less apposite to the tub than 
to the sea. 
As I possessed a small competence and 


no near home-ties, I felt under no constraint 





to leave H sooner than suited my humour ; 
so, though I had originally intended to remain 
there no longer than seven or eight weeks, 
month after month slipped away till a whole 
year had elapsed, and found me there still. 
In a year one becomes thoroughly acquainted 
with daily associates, and from being pre- 
possessed by their engaging aspect, I had 
come to love and respect Piccirillo and his 
wife. Both were good Catholics, and evinced 
their orthodoxy as well by regularity at mass 
and confession as by strict uprightness towards 
customers and kindliness towards neighbours. 
Once when a fishing-boat was lost at sea, 
and its owner, Ned Gough, left well-nigh 
penniless, Cola, who was ingenious in preparing 
marine oddities, arranged a group of young 
skate in their quaint hoods and mantles, and 
mounted them ona green board amongst sea- 


weed bushes as a party of gipsies; this would 


¢ 
VANNA’S TWINS. 225 


have been raffled for, and the proceeds given 
to the ruined boatman, had I not taken a 
fancy to the group, and purchased it. And 
the first time the twins walked out alone was 
when they crossed over the road hand in 
hand, each holding ‘an orange as a present to 
a little sick girl opposite. Both parents watched 
them safe over, and I heard one remark to 
the other, that ‘ Wossignore’ would bless 
them. 

It was mid-May when I arrived at H 





bd 


and about mid-May of the year following I 
returned to London. A legal question had 
meanwhile arisen touching my small property ; 
and this took so long to settle, that during many 
and many months I remained in doubt whether 
I should continue adequately provided for, or be 
reduced to work in some department or other 
for my living. The point was ultimately de- 
cided in my favour, but not before much vexa- 
tion and expense had been incurred on both 
sides. At the end of three years from quitting 
H—— I made up my mind to return and settle 


there for good: no special ties bound me to 
Q 


226 VANNA’S TWINS. 


London, and I knew of no people under whose 
roof I would so gladly make my solitary home 
as with Piccirillo and his wife ; besides, the twins 
were an attraction. As to the optician’s shop 
being in an out-of-the-way quarter, that I cared 
nothing for, having neither the tastes nor the 
income for fashionable society: so, after a pre- 
liminary letter or two had passed between us, 
I found myself one glowing afternoon in June 
standing once again on the H—— platform, not 
in the forlorn position I so vividly remembered, 
but met by Cola, broader than ever in figure, 
and smiling his broadest, who whipped up my 
trunks with his own hands on to the fly, and 
took his place by the driver. 

Vanna came running out to meet me at the 
carriage door, seizing and kissing both my 
hands; and before I even alighted two sturdy 
urchins had been made to kiss ‘la Szgnora’s 
hand. Ten minutes more and I was seated at 
tea, chatting to Vanna, and renewing acquaint- 
ance with my old friends Felice and Gioconda. 
This was effected by the presentation to them 


of a lump of sugar apiece, for which each again 


VANNA’S TWINS. 227 


kissed my hand, fortunately before their mouths 
had become sticky by suction. 

They were the funniest little creatures ima- 
ginable, and two of the prettiest. Felice was 
still just ahead of Gioconda in bulk, but so 
much like her that (as I found afterwards) if 
for fun they exchanged hats I got into a com- 
plete mental muddle as to which was which, 
confused by the discrepant hats and frocks. 
There was no paid Roman Catholic school in 
H——, but the good nuns of St. L taught 
the little boys and girls of their congregation ; 





and morning after morning I used to see the 
twins start for school hand in hand, with dinner 


as well as books in their bags; for St. L 





was too far from their home to admit of going 
and returning twice in one day. All the neigh- 
bours were fond of them; and often before their 
destination was reached a hunch of cake from 
some good-natured rough hand had found its 
way into one or other bag, to be shared in due 
course. 

At their books they were ‘proprio maravi- 


gtliosi, as Vanna phrased it ; whilst Cola, swelling 


228 VANNA’S TWINS. 


with paternal pride under a veil of humility, 
would observe, ‘Von c’é male, né lui née lei? I 
believe they really were clever children and 
fond of their books: at any rate, one Holy 
Innocents’ Day they brought home a prize, a 
little story in two volumes, one volume apiece ; 
for, as the kind nuns had remarked, they were 
like one work in two volumes themselves, and 
should have one book between them. That 
night they went to bed and fell asleep hand in 
hand as usual, but each holding in the other 
hand a scarlet-bound volume, so proud were 
they. They were but seven years old, and had 
never yet slept apart: never yet, and, as it 
turned out, never at all. 

The Christmas when this happened was one 
of the brightest and pleasantest I recollect ; 
night after night slight frost visited us, but day 
after day it melted away, whilst sea and sky 
spread clear and blue in the sunshine. In other 
countries much snow had fallen and was still 
falling, but snow had not yet reached our 
shores. 


Christmas, as usual, brought a few bills to 


VANNA’S TWINS. 229 


me, and likewise to my friends. Of theirs the 
heaviest was the doctor’s bill, for the twins had 
caught scarlatina in the summer, and had got 
well on a variety of pills and draughts. Then 
Cola bethought himself of certain money due 
to him at a coast-guard station not many miles 
from H 
pay the doctor; and one Saturday, a day or 
two after Twelfth Day, he took the first after- 


noon train to E——, this being the nearest 





, and which would just suffice to 


point on the line to his destination, and went 
to look after his debtor, telling Vanna that he 
might not be back before the latest train came 
into H——. ; 

So Vanna took her seat behind the counter, 
and looked up the road towards St. L——, 
watching for her little ones to come racing home 
from school, for school broke up early on 
Saturdays. As she sat, she knitted some- 
thing warm and useful, for she was never idle, 
and hummed in her low, sweet voice the first 
words of a Christmas carol. I only know 
those first words, so pathetic in their devout 


simplicity :— 


230 VANNA’S TWINS. 


‘Tu scendi dalle stelle, O Re del Cielo, 
E vieni in una grotta al freddo al gelo: 
O Bambino mio divino 
Io Ti voglio sempre amar ! 
O Dio beato 
E quanto Ti costo l’ avermi amato.’ 


She was thus occupied as I crossed the shop 
on my way upstairs, and whilst I paused to say 
a word in passing, a young woman, her face 
swollen with crying, came up, who, almost with- 
out stopping, called out: ‘O Fanny, Fanny, my 
three are down with the fever, and I’m running 
for the doctor!’ and in speaking she was gone. 

Sympathetic tears had gathered in Vanna’s 
kind eyes when I looked at her. ‘Won hanno 
padre, she said, half apologetically ; and I then 
recollected who the young woman was, and that 
her children were worse than fatherless. Poor 
Maggie Crowe! deserted by a good-for-nothing 
husband she worked hard to keep her little ones 
out of the workhouse; did charing, took in 
needlework, went out nursing when she could 
get a job, and now her three children were 
‘down with the fever,’ and she had had to leave 


VANNA’S TWINS. 231 


them alone in her wretched hovel on the east 
to fetch 


the parish doctor. We soon saw her tearing 





cliff to run a mile and more into H 


back as she had come, not stopping ‘now to 
speak. 

I went to my room, and looking into my 
charity-purse found that I could afford five 
shillings out of it for this poor family, and 
settled mentally that I would take them round 
next day after church. At the moment I was 
feeling tired and disinclined to stir, and I con- 
cluded the parish doctor, who bore a character 
for kindness, would certainly for that night 
supply his patients with necessaries. 

Justeatter the clock struck three I heard a 
bustle below; the twins had come home and 
were talking eagerly to their mother in their 
loud, childish voices. I heard Vanna answer 
them once or twice; then she spoke continu- 
ously, seeming to tell them something, and I 
heard both reply, ‘Mamma si. A few minutes 
later I was surprised to see them from my 
window trotting along the street, but not in 


the direction from which they had just come, 


eH) VANNA’S TWINS. 


and bearing between them a market-basket, 
each of them holding it by one handle. 

A suspicion of their errand crossed my mind, 
and I hurried downstairs to warn Vanna that a 
few snowflakes had already fallen and more 
hung floating about in the still air. She had 
noticed this of herself, but replied that they 
knew their way quite well, and it was not far 
to go; indeed, she could not feel easy without 
sending up a few oranges left from Twelfth Day 
for the sick children. Her own had had the 
fever, they had promised her to go straight and 
return straight without loitering, and though 
she looked somewhat anxious, she concluded 
bravely : ‘ Vossignore avra cura di loro.’ 

I went back to my room thoroughly mor- 
tified at the rebuke which her alacrity ad- 
ministered to my laziness)s ‘How much less 
would it not have cost me to set off at once 
with my five shillings than it cost poor Vanna 
to send her little ones, tired as perhaps they 
were, to what, for such short legs, was a con- 
siderable distance. From my window, moreover, 


I soon could not help perceiving that not 


VANNA’S TWINS. 233 


only the snow, rare at first, had begun to 
fall rapidly and in large flakes, but that the 
sky lowered dense and ominous over the east 
cliff. I felt sure that there, and thither it 
was that the twins were bound, it must already 
be snowing heavily. 

Four o'clock struck, but Felice and Gio- 
conda had not come back. I heard Vanna 
closing the shop. In another five minutes she 
came up to me dressed in bonnet and shawl, 
with a pale face that told its own story of 
alarm. Still she would not acknowledge her- 
self frightened, but tried to laugh, as she 
apologized for leaving me alone in the house, 
assured me that no one could possibly be 
calling at that hour, and protested that she 
would not be out long. If the twins arrived 
in her absence she was sure I would kindly 
let them sit by my fire till her return; then, 
fairly breaking down and crying, she left me, 
repeating, ‘Mon son che piccint, poveri piccini, 
povert piccint miet.’ eS 

A couple of men with lighted lanterns stood 


waiting for her in the street; one of them 


234 VANNA’S TWINS. 


made her take his arm, and I knew by the 
voice that it was Ned Gough. MHour after 
hour struck, and they did not return. 

About seven o’clock I heard a loud knock- 
ing; and running down to open the door, for 
being left alone in the house I had locked 
up and made all safe, I found Piccirillo, who 
on account of the snow had hastened home 
by an earlier train than he had mentioned, 
and was now much amazed at finding the 
house closed and no light burning below. When 
he understood what had happened he seemed 
beside himself with agitation and terror. Fling- 
ing up his arms he rushed from the house, 
calling out, ‘Vanna, Vanna mia! dove sei? 
rispondimi: figlt miter, rispondetemt. Neigh- 
bours came about him, offering what comfort 
they could think of: but what comfort could 
there be? He, too, must set off in the snow 
to seek his poor lost babies and their mother ; 
and soon he started, lantern and stick in hand, 
ejaculating, and making vows as he went. 
‘Dio mio, Dio mio, abbi pieta di not. 


All through the long night it snowed and 


VANNA’S TWINS. 235 


snowed: at daybreak it was snowing still. 
Soon after daybreak the seekers returned, 
cold, silent, haggard; Piccirillo carrying his 
wife, who lay insensible in his arms. After 
hours of wandering they had met somewhere 
out towards the east cliff, and Vanna, at sight 
of her husband, had dropped down utterly 
spent. She had gone straight to Maggie 
Crowe's cottage, and found that the twins had 
safely left the oranges there and started home- 
wards; Felice tired but manful, poor little 
Gioconda trudging wearily along, and clinging 
to her brother. Maggie had tried to keep 
them at the cottage as it was already snow- 
ing heavily, and the little girl had cried and 
wanted to stay and warm herself; but her 
brother said ‘No; they had promised not to 
loiter, his sister would be good and not cry, 
he would take care of her; so whilst Maggie 
was busy with her own sick children, the 
twins had started. Beyond this, not one of 
the searching party could trace them; the 
small footmarks must have been effaced almost 


as soon as imprinted on the snow; and any one 


236 VANNA’S TWINS. 


of the surface inequalities of that snow-waste, 
which now stretched right and left for miles, 
might be the mound to cover two such feeble 
wayfarers. | 

For three days the frost held and our 
suspense lasted; then the wind veered from 
north round to west, a rapid thaw set in, and 
a few hours ended hope and fear alike. The 
twins were found huddled together in a chalky 
hollow close to the edge of the cliff, and 
almost within sight of Maggie’s hovel: Gio- 
conda with her head thrust into the market- 
basket, Felice with one arm holding the basket 
over his sister, and with the other clasping 
her close to him. Her fat hands met round 
his waist, and clasped between them was a small 
silver cross I had given her at Christmas, and 
which she had worn round her neck. 

- Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their 
death they were not divided; but as they 
had always shared one bed, they now shared 
one coffin and one grave. 

After a while Piccirillo and his wife re- 


covered from their passionate grief; but Vanna 


VANNA’S TWINS. a 


— 


drooped more and more as spring came on, 
and clothed the small grave with greenness. 
They had no other child, and the house was 
silent indeed and desolate. Once I heard them 
talking to each other of ‘Vascitamméd:? Vanna 
said something I did not catch, and then Cola 
answered her; ‘S72, Vanna mia, ritorneremo , 
tolea Lddio che 10 perda te ancora, 
~So I knew that we should soon have to 
part. They came upstairs together to me one 
evening, and with real kindliness explained that 
all their plans were altered on account of 
Vanna’s failing health, and that they must 
go home to their own country lest she should 
die. Vanna cried and I cried, and poor Cola 
fairly cried too. I promised them that the 
little grave shall never fall into neglect whilst 
I live, and in thanking me they managed 
to say through their tears,—‘ Vossignore é buono, 
e certo li avra benedetti.’ 
The business was easily disposed of, for 
though small, it was a thriving concern, and 
capable of extension. Other affairs did not 


take long to settle; and one morning I saw 


238 VANNA’S TWINS. 


my kind friends off by an early train, on their 
road through London to ‘Vascitammd,’ which 


now neither the twins nor I shall ever see. 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


IT was a pitchy dark night. Not the oldest in- 
habitant remembered so black a night, so moon- 
less, so utterly starless; and whispering one to 
another, men said with a shiver that longer still, 
not for a hundred years back—ay, or for a thou- 
sand years—ay, or even since the world was— 
had such gross darkness covered the land. Yet 
those who counted the time protested that 
morning must now be at hand, ready to break, 
even while East and West were massed in one 
common indistinguishable blot of blackness ; 
and those who discerned the signs of the times, 
those who waited for the morning, looked often 
towards one house which could not be hid, for 
it was set upon a hill, nor overturned, for it was 


R 


242 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


founded upon a rock, and from which a light 
streamed pure and steady, shaming the flickering 
gas-lamps of the town, the dim glare of shops 
and private dwellings, and the flaring, smoking 
torches of such wayfarers as thought, by com- 
passing themselves about with sparks, to find 
safety in their transit to and fro. 

On this cheerless night a solitary traveller 
entered the town by the eastern gate. He rode 
a white horse: about both the beast and his 
rider there was something foreign, or if not 
foreign, at any rate unusual. The man was keen 
and military of aspect, and had the air of one 
bound on some mission of importance. The 
horse seemed to know his road without guidance, 
to turn hither or thither by instinct, not to loiter, 
yet not to make haste. They passed through 
the eastern gate, which was opened wide before 
them : without let or hindrance they entered in, 
and the horse’s hoofs struck once on the paved 
road. 

In an instant, at the western outskirts of the 
city a flare of red light shot up. Out came 


houses into view from the night darkness; to 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 243 


right and left they flashed out for a moment: 
for a moment you could spy through the win- 
dows people sitting at table, reading, working, 
dancing, as the case might be: you could note 
a bird’s cage hanging here or there, a eat or two 
creeping along the gutter, a few foot-passengers 
arrested by the unexpected glare looking round 
them in all directions for its source, a single 
carriage threading its way cautiously along the 
dangerous streets: for a moment—then a cry 
went up, then there came the crash and crush 
of a tremendous explosion, and then darkness 
settled once more over its own dominion ; whilst 
through the darkness those who could not see 
each other’s faces heard each other’s groans, 
cries for help, shrieks of terror or of agonizing 
pain. All the gas-lamps of the city had gone 
out as though at a single whiff, for it was an 
explosion of the great central gasworks which 
had taken place. And the darkness deepened. 
To the south of the city lay the sea. Day 
and night its surges were never still nor silent ; 
day and night ships heaved on its bosom, 
passing in or out of harbour, laden with pas- 


244. A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


sengers, with gold, silks, provisions, merchandise 
of all sorts. On this night, if any one had had 
owl’s eyes to peer with, he might have discerned 
that the deep boiled like a pot of ointment; he 
would have seen in a score, yea, in a hundred 
vessels, the sailors at their wits’ end reeling to 
and fro, and staggering like drunken men ; 
whilst the strong masts snapped like straws, 
and the tough, hollow ship-sides stove in as 
though they had been of paper—till captains, 
crews, and passengers, were fain to cast over- 
board freights and treasures, rarities from the 
ends of the earth, corn, and wine, and oil—to 
cast these overboard, and at length, abandoning 
the ship, to flee for their lives in boats, on 
planks, on pieces of the vessel, too happy if 
with bare life they escaped to land, beggared 
but alive. Meanwhile those on the quays could 
guess, though they could not see, the ruin, as 
wretch after poor wretch struggled to shore ; 
but for one who came, a score at least were seen 
no more for ever. 

In a central quarter of the town stood the 


old-established county bank, concerning which 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 245 


the townspeople had long boasted that not the 
national bank itself was safer. In panic years 
it had remained unaffected by the surrounding 
pressure ; it had stood firm, and stand it would 
whilst the town was atown: so said its directors, 
its shareholders, the public voice in unison. 
But on this certain night of all nights in the 
year, when ship after ship went down with 
entire costly cargoes, and scores and hundreds 
of hands on board; when the gasworks exploded, 
to the obvious utter ruin of the shareholders ; 
when a report spread that the treasurer of the 
chief railway company had absconded with all 
the funds in his hands, a report confirmed 
as night wore, and soon established as a fact ; 
on this night of all nights, the dismayed citizens 
turned in thought to their bank. Every man 
beheld an enemy in his neighbour, an enemy 
who would forestall others and save himself at 
all costs ; and in the panic of accumulated losses 
man after man bent his steps towards the bank. 
The doors were besieged; with loud cries the 
men—and the women too, for many of these 
had flocked thither impelled by the instinct of 


* 


246 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


self-preservation—men and women beset the 
doors, demanding instant admittance, and clam- 
ouring for their money deposits to be restored 
to them then and there. The pressure waxed 
irresistible ; the doors yielded; a terrified clerk 
or two strove vainly with plausible words to 
appease the foremost applicants; then desper- 
ately discharged claim after claim in notes, 
sovereigns, silver, till the last sixpence—,down 
to the last penny—was disbursed. When it 
became known that the old-established secure 
bank had stopped payment before it had met 
a tithe of its liabilities, it was as much as the 
clerks could do to escape with whole skins from 
the infuriated, disappointed populace. 

But more troubles were to come. At the 
railway station a telegram had been received 
early in the evening intimating that a branch 
bank in an adjacent town had been constrained 
by sudden pressure to stop payment, though, as 
it was hoped, only momentarily. This disastrous 
news had been studiously confined to one or 
two parties, who hoped to profit by being in 


advance of their neighbours; but soon a second 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 247 


telegram of like import came in from another 
quarter; then a third; and it became impos- 
sible any longer to suppress the facts. A ter- 
rible commotion ensued on ’Change ; there was 
scarcely a house in all the town where ruin, or 
at the least reverse, had not entered. 

But what, after all, were these partial local 
failures? Before the night was over another 
telegram arrived, and it transpired that the 
main national bank itself had broken. 

Then a cry went up through the length and 
breadth of the land. 

When our wayfarer reached the Exchange it 
was crowded by persons of all ranks and ages, 
brought together by the bond of a common 
disaster. He dismounted, tethered his white 
horse to the railings outside, and entering joined 
the concourse within, apparently with no further 
object than to observe and listen, passing from 
group to group, pausing sometimes a longer, 
sometimes a shorter period, here or there as 
the case might demand. Most of the persons 
present—of those at least who were not simply 


paralysed and struck dumb by their misfortunes 


248 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


—stood disputing in loud, excited tones, as to 
the causes and details of the present public 
calamities ;—whose carelessness it was which had 
occasioned the gas explosion ; how many vessels 
and lives, and what value of cargo, had perished 
in the storm; some rating the probable loss at 
millions and some at tens of millions; what 
hope there might still be of a dividend from the 
local bank; whether any of the reported failures 
had been without fraud; what head the country 
could make against the vast smash of the 
national bank. But here and there some one 
man or woman seemed, in the hubbub of rage 
and dismay, to be wrapped in private, personal 
erief, alien from the general cares. 

One such, a _ half-frantic elderly woman, 
huddled in a corner, was tearing her hair and 
crying out in broken, half-articulate speech. 
The strange traveller approached her, and in a, 
voice of great sympathy inquired into the source 
of her passionate sorrow. Then, weeping and 
gnashing her teeth, she shrieked her answer: 
‘My son, my son, he has been cashiered to-day 


from his regiment! His commission was all we 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 249 


had in the world, and he was all I loved in the 
world.’ An old sullen man, accosted by the 
.traveller, replied shortly that his strong-box 
had been broken open and rifled by thieves, and 
that as he was removing a small remnant of 
money left to him from his own house to a place 
of security, the few precious coins had slipped 
through a hole in the bag and been lost. Ano- 
ther man, being questioned, seemed to find some 
relief in complaint, and answered readily that 
he had embarked enormous capital in construct- 
ing a reservoir for water, on a scale amply suff- 
cient for the supply of the whole town, but that, 
at the very moment when he hoped to realise 
cent per cent upon his original outlay, a flaw 
had been discovered in the main aqueduct, and 
it was then perceived, too late, that all the cis- 
terns were broken and could hold no water. 
Every tale was diverse, yet, in fact, every one 
was the same. Each speaker had sunk all that 
he had in some plausible investment, the invest- 
ment had burst like a bubble, and now one and 
all in desperate sorrow could but bewail their 


ruin as without remedy. They had no eyes, no 


250 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


thought, no sympathy, save each man for him- 
self; none stretched a helping hand to his 
neighbour, or spoke a word of comfort, or cared 
who sank or who swam in this desolation which 
had come like a flood. 

From such as these it was vain to demand 
hospitality. The traveller went out from amongst 
them, remounted his horse, and pursued his 
way along the darkened, deserted streets, be- 
tween rows of tall houses, in which the voice of 
mirth and music seemed silenced for ever. Now 
at one door, now at another, he knocked to ask 
for refreshment, but always without success. 
Sometimes no answer was vouchsafed to his 
summons ; sometimes he was turned away with 
churlish indifference, or even with abuse for 
having ventured to disturb the household in its 
night of distress. 

At last he observed one cottage, which, de- 
tached from other residences, stood alone in its 
trim garden-plot. In this only, amongst all the 
dwellings he had passed, there shone a light. 
He dismounted once more, tethered his horse to 


the wicket-gate, followed the gravel-path, and 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 251 


knocked gently at the house-door. A calm, 
cheerful-looking woman opened to him, and 
seeing a stranger at that late hour, conceived at 
once that he was a wayfarer in quest of repose 
and refreshment, and bade him enter and be 
welcome. Then, while he sat down by the fire, 
she hastened to set before him milk and bread, 
meat, wine, and butter. This done, she ran out 
and led the horse under an open shed (she had 
no stable), and there provided it with clean straw 
and fodder. : 

Now when the traveller had eaten and drunk 
and sat awhile, he began to question her con- 
cerning her prosperity and cheerfulness in that 
night of ruin; and she, as the others had done, 
answered him all that he would know. 

‘My money, said she, ‘is not invested as so 
many in this town have invested theirs. When 
I was yet young, One told me that riches do 
certainly make to themselves wings and fly 
away; and that gold perisheth, though it be 
purified seven times in the fire. Nevertheless 
He added that, if I chose, there could with my 
gold and silver be made ready for me an ever- 


252 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 


lasting habitation, to receive me when the pre- 
sent fashion shall have passed away; and that 
I might lay up for myself treasure where neither 
moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves 
do not break through and steal. So, when I 
was willing, He further informed me by what 
means I should send my deposits to that secure 
house whereof the Owner will be no man’s debtor. 
On the first day of the week I was to go up to 
the branch-house upon the hill—you see it, sir, 
out to the East yonder; there, where a light 
shines to lighten every one that goeth into the 
house ; and according as I had been prospered, 
I was to drop somewhat into the money-chest 
kept there. All such sums would be placed to 
my account, and would bear interest. But be- 
sides this, I was apprised that the Owner of the 
house employs many collectors, who may call 
at any moment, often at the most unlikely mo- 
ments, for deposits. FFrrom-these I was to take 
heed never to turn away my face, but I was to 
give to them freely, being well assured that they 
would carry all entrusted to them safely to my 


account. Thus, sometimes a fatherless child 


A SAFE INVESTMENT. 253 


calls on me, sometimes a distressed widow ; 
sometimes a sick case comes before me; some- 
times a stranger, sir, as you have done this very 
night, demands my hospitality. And as I know 
whom I have trusted, and am persuaded that 
He will keep that which I commit to Him, I 
gladly spend and am spent, being a succourer of 
many, and looking for the recompense of the 
reward.’ 

So when the strange traveller had rested 
awhile, his horse also having been refreshed, 
he rose before daybreak, mounted, and rode 
away. Whence he came and whither he went 
I know not, but he rode as one that carries back 
tidings to Him that sent him. Also this I know, 
that some, being mindful to entertain strangers, 


have entertained angels unawares. 





rf ae ar 
aes 





PROS AND CONS. 





mi 





PROS AND CONS. 


‘But, my dear doctor, cried Mrs. Plume, ‘you 
never can seriously mean it.’ 

The scene was the Rectory drawing-room 
_ —tea-time; some dozen parishioners drinking 
tea with their Rector and his wife. Mrs. Good- 
man looked down; her husband, the Rector, 
looked up. 

‘I really did mean it, said he, courteously ; 
‘and, with your permission, I mean it still. 
Let us consider the matter calmly, my dear 
Mrs. Plume, calmly and fairly; and to start 
us fairly I will restate my proposal, which is 
that we should all combine to do our best 
towards bringing about the abolition of pews 


from our parish church.’ 


258 PROS AND CONS. 


‘Then I,’ returned Mrs. Plume, shaking her 
head airily, ‘must really restate my protest. 
You never seriously can mean it.’ 

‘Nay, resumed the Rector, ‘ don’t think that 
I am unmindful of your feelings on this point; 
and he glanced round the circle. ‘If I spoke 
hastily I ask your pardon and patience; but 
this matter of pews and pew-rents is on my 
conscience, and ¢hat I must lighten at all 
costs; even, Mr. Sale,—for Mr. Sale frowned 
—‘at the cost of my income. However, why 
should we conclude ourselves to be at variance 
before we have ventilated the matter in hand? 
I for one will never take for granted that 
any good Christian is against the acknowledg- 
ment of our absolute equality before God.’ 

‘Sir, interposed Mr. Blackman, ‘we are equals, 
whatever may be our colour or our country. 
But whilst the Zenana counts its victims by 
thousands, whilst the Japanese make boast of 
their happy despatch, whilst the Bushman, 
dwindling “before our face, lives and dies as the 
beasts that perish, shall we divert our attention 


from such matters of life and death to fix it 


PROS AND CONS. 259 


on a petty question of appearance? Pardon 
me if tears for our benighted brethren blind 
me to such a matter as this.’ 

‘Our benighted brethren,’ said the Rector, 
gravely, ‘have my pity, have my prayers, 
have my money in some measure. Of your 
larger gifts in these several kinds I will not 
ask you to divert one throb, or one word, 
or one penny in favour of our poor fellow- 
parishioners. No, dear friend, help us by your 
good example to enlarge our field of chari- 
table labour; to stretch full handed towards 
remote spots; but not meanwhile to fail in 
breaking up our own fallow ground at home. 
We all know that if at this moment either 
our foreign or our native ragged brother were 
to present himself in church, however open 
our hearts may be to him, our pew-doors would 
infallibly be shut against him, and he would 
find himself looked down upon both literally 
and figuratively. This, I own to you, were 
I he, would discomfit me, and put a stum- 
bling-block in my way as a worshipper.’ 

‘Pooh! pooh!’ broke in Mr. Wood, testily : 


260 PROS AND CONS. 


‘My dear fellow, I really thought you a wiser 
man. What hardship is it for a flunky or 
a clodhopper to sit in a seat without a 
door ?? 

‘Ah!’ rejoined the Rector quietly, ‘for a 
servant, as you say, or for a mere sower of 
our fields, or (why not?) for a carpenter’s son 
either? But allow me to name two points 
which strike me forcibly,—two very solemn 
points ; and Dr. Goodman spoke with solemnity, 
and bowed his head. ‘ First, that if our adorable 
Lord were now walking this world as once 
He walked it, and if He had gone into our 
parish church last Sunday, as long ago He 
used to frequent the synagogue of Nazareth, 
He would certainly not have waited long to 
be ushered into a pew, but would, at least 
as willingly, have sat down amongst His own 
“blessed” poor; and, secondly, that we should 
all have left Him to do so unmolested; for 
I cannot suppose that His were the gold ring 
and goodly apparel which would have challenged 
attention.’ 


_ There was a pause, broken by Mrs. Plume, 


PROS AND CONS. 261 


who, turning to her hostess, observed: ‘Ah,’ 
dear Mrs. Goodman, we know and revere the 
zeal of our dear good apostle. But you and 
I are old housekeepers, old birds not to be 
caught with chaff;’ and she shook a fascinating 
finger at her pastor; ‘and we know that the 
poor are not nice neighbours; quite infectious, 
in fact. They do very well together all in 
a clump, but one really couldn't risk sitting 
amongst them, on various grounds, you know.’ 

‘Well,’ resumed the Rector, ‘I plead guilty 
to being but a tough man, thick-skinned, and 
lacking certain subtler members, entitled nerves. 
But what will you? You must make allow- 
ances for me, and even put up with me as 
I am. With docility, and all the imagination 
of which I am master, I throw myself into 
your position, and shudder with you at these 
repulsively infectious poor. I even seek to 
deepen my first impression of horror by ques- 
tioning myself in detail, and I dwell on the 
word “infectious.” This brings before me 
small-pox, typhus fever, and other dreadful 


ailments; and I hasten (in spirit) to slam to, 


262 PROS AND CONS. 


if only I could to bolt and bar, my pew-door. 
Safely ensconced within, I peer over my ne- 
cessary barrier, and, relieved from the pressure 
of instant peril, gaze with pity on the crowd 
without, all alike typhus-stricken, all alike re- 
dolent of small-pox. A new terror thrills 
me. Are ‘all alike’ infectious? or have we 
grouped together sound and unsound, sick and 
healthy? Ah, you hint, that amount of risk 
cannot be helped if they are to come to church 
at all. I am corrected, and carrying out the 
lesson of my Teacher I echo: That amount 
of risk cannot be helped if we are to come 
to church at all.’ 

‘These men! these men!’ cried Mrs. Plume, 
gaily. And Miss Crabb observed, from behind 
her blue spectacles, ‘Well, I suppose a woman 
of my age may allude to anything she pleases; 
so I make bold to tell you, Dr. Goodman, 
that small-pox may be all nonsense; but that 
nobody would like to sit amongst smells, and 
cheek-by-jowl with more heads than one in 
a bonnet.’ 


‘Smells,’ rejoined the Rector, ‘I do strongly 


PROS AND CONS. 263 


object to; including scents, my dear Mrs. Plume; 
but that is a matter of taste. The other 
detail, which I know not how to express more 
pointedly than in the striking words of Miss 
Crabb, is yet more to be deprecated: but let 
us consider whether pews fairly meet the dif- 
ficulty. Fairly? I ask; and then unhesitatingly 
answer, No. For all the poor, both clean and 
dirty, occupy our free seats together; and 
surely to sit next a dirty neighbour is, at the 
least, as great a hardship on the cleanly poor as 
it would be on the rich, who are so far better 
able to have their clothes cleansed, or even, in 
case of need, to discard them. If, indeed, all 
dirty individuals would have the good feeling to 
compact themselves into one body it might be 
reassuring to their fellows, but this it were in- 
vidious to propose; and besides, we are at 
present mooting pews or no pews, not any third 
possible—or shall we say impossible ?—alter- 
native. I confess to you, he resumed, very 
seriously, ‘when I remember the little stress 
laid by Christ on clean hands, and the para- 


mount importance in His eyes of a clean heart; 


264 PROS AND CONS. 


when I reflect on the dirt of all kinds which 
must have touched Him in the crowds He 
taught and healed; when I realise that every 
one of my parishioners, poor as well as rich, will 
confront me at His judgment-bar, I tremble lest 
any should be deterred from coming to Him 
because I am too fine a gentlemen to go out 
into the highways and hedges, and compel to 
come in those actual poor—foul of body, it may 
be, as well as of soul—whom yet He has num- 
bered to me as my flock.’ 

Silence ensued—an uncomfortable silence ; 
broken by Mrs. Goodman’s nervous proffer of 
tea to Mr. Sale, who declined it. 

Mr. Home resumed the attack. ‘ Doctor,’ 
observed he, ‘all other objections to open seats 
might perhaps be overruled ; but consider the 
sacredness of family affection, and do not ask 
us to scatter ourselves forlornly through the 
church, here a husband, there a wife; and he 
interchanged a smile with Mrs. Home; ‘there, 
again, a practical orphan. I for one could not 
, possibly say my prayers without my little woman 
at my elbow.’ , 


PROS AND CONS. 265 


‘Here,’ cried the Rector, ‘I joyfully meet 
you halfway. The division of the sexes in dis- 
tinct aisles is a question by itself, and one which 
I am not now discussing. Only go betimes to 
church ’—at this a glance of intelligence passed 
round the circle, whilst Mrs. Home coloured,— 
‘and I stake my credit that you will hardly 
ever fail to find six contiguous seats for your 
party.’ 

Then Mr. Stone spoke up—Mr. Stone, the 
warmest man in the parish. He spoke with his 
fat hands in his fat pockets. 

‘Dr. Goodman, sir,—the courteous Rector 
bowed,—‘ my attachment to the Church and 
my respect for your cloth must not prevent my 
doing my duty by my fellow-parishioners, 
whose mouthpiece on the present occasion I 
claim to.be. A general movement of relief 
accepted him as the lay champion. ‘We ac- 
knowledge, sir, and appreciate your zeal amongst 
us, but we protest against your innovations. 
We have borne with chants, with a surpliced 
choir, with daily services, but we will not bear 


to see all our rights trampled under foot, and 


266 PROS AND CONS. 


all our time-hallowed usages set at nought. 
The tendency of the day is to level social dis- 
tinctions and to elevate unduly the lower orders. 
In this parish at least let us combine to keep 
up wise barriers between class and class, and to 
maintain that fundamental principle practically 
bowed to all over our happy England, that what 
you can pay for you can purchase. This, sir, 
has been our first dissension’—a statement not 
quite correct,—‘ let it be our last; and in token 
that we are at one again, here is my hand.’ 

Dr. Goodman grasped the proffered hand, 
looking rather pale as he did so. 

‘Let this betoken,’ rejoined he, ‘that what- 
ever is discarded amongst us, it shall not be 
Christian charity. And now it grows late. I 
must not selfishly prolong our discussion ; yet, 
as your pastor, with a sacred duty to discharge 
towards all my flock, suffer me to add one word. 
What Mr. Stone has alleged may be the system 
of worldly England ; though many a man pro- 
fessing far less than we do would repudiate so 
monstrous a principle; but as Churchmen we 
can have nothing to do with it. God’s gifts 


PROS AND CONS. 267 


are bought without money and without price: 
“‘ Ho, every one,” cries His invitation. I, there- 
fore, as His most unworthy ambassador, protest 
that in His house I will no longer buy and sell 
as in a market. I confess myself in fault that 
I have so long tolerated this monstrous abuse; 
and I avow that you, my brethren, have this 
evening furnished me with the only plausible 
argument in favour of pews which has ever been 
suggested to me, for it zs hard upon our open- 
hearted poor that they should be compelled to 
sit by persons who, instead of viewing them as 
brethren beloved, despise the poor.’ 





THE WAVES OF THIS 
TROUBLESOME WORLD, 


A TALE OF HASTINGS FIFTEEN 
YEARS AGO. 





a 
’ 





THE WAVES OF THIS 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 


PART I. 


PERHAPS there is no pleasanter watering-place 
in England where to spend the fine summer 
months than Hastings, on the Sussex coast. 
The old town, nestling in a long, narrow valley, 
flanked by the East and West Hills, looks down 
upon the sea. At the valley mouth, on the 
shingly beach, stands the fish-market, where 
boatmen disembark the fruit of daily toil ; where 
traffic is briskly plied, and maybe haggling 
rages ; where bare-legged children dodge in and 
out between the stalls; where now and thena 
travelling show—dwarf, giant, or what not— 


arrests for brief days its wanderings. 


272 THE WAVES OF THIS 


Hard by the market, on the beach, stands 
the fishermen’s chapel—plain, but comely, with, 
near the door, its small chest for offerings. I 
know not whether chanted psalms and hymns 
rise within its walls; but if they do, the windy 
sea must sound an accompaniment exceeding 
in solemn. harmony any played upon earthly 
organs, to such words as, ‘One deep calleth 
another, because of the noise of the water- 
pipes: all Thy waves and storms are gone 
over me;’ or, ‘They are carned sy ero ee 
heaven, and down again to the deep: their soul 
melteth away because of the trouble;’ or, ‘ Let 
not the waterflood drown me, neither let the 
deep swallow me up.’ 

It is a pretty sight in brilliant holiday 
weather to watch the many parties of health 
or pleasure-seekers which throng the beach. 
Boys and girls picking up shells, pebbles, and 
star-fishes, or raising with hands and wooden 
spades a sand fortress, encircled by a moat full 
of sea-water, and crowned by a twig of seaweed 
as a flag; mothers and elder sisters reading or 
working beneath shady hats, whilst after bathing 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 273 


their long hair dries in the sun and wind. Hard 
by rock at their moorings bannered pleasure- 
boats, with blue-jerseyed oarsmen or white sails ; 
and if the weather is oppressively hot and sunny, 
a gaily-coloured canopy is reared on light poles, 
for the protection of voyagers. When tide is 
high, a plank or a long step suffices ; but at low 
water, as the shore is flat, boatmen have fre- 
quently to carry children, and even women, 
across the broad stretch of wet sands to and 
from the vessels. 

Very different from such seafarers in sport 
are their near neighbours, the seafarers in ear- 
nest ; who neither hoist canopies for fair weather, 
nor tarry at home for foul; who might say with 
the patriarch Jacob, ‘In the day the drought 
consumed me, and the frost by night ;’ whose 
vigils often see the moon rise and set; who 
sometimes buffet with the winds and tug against 
the tide for very life. 

It is with one of these that my tale has to 
do: let us peep into his cottage. 

An accident to his boat, only just now, after 
hours of diligent labour, repaired, has kept 

D 


274 THE WAVES OF THIS 


Frank Hardiman on shore all day. Within 
another hour the tide will be favourable, and 
he must put to sea; till then he stays with 
his wife and two children, Jane and Henry. 
They are seated at tea, discussing the con- 
tents of a letter received that afternoon. Let 
us look at the faces and listen to the con- 
versation. 

Frank Hardiman is thirty-one years old, tall, 
stout, tanned by the sun, with a deep, jolly voice, 
bright eyes, and the merriest of laughs. His 
wife, Emma, is slim and rather pretty, dressed 
with considerable taste and uncommon neatness; 
for before her marriage she was upper nurse in 
a gentleman’s family, and, indeed, made acquaint- 
ance with her good man when loitering along 
the beach after her little charges. Jane is nine 
years old, quiet and shy, with a mild expression, 
redeemed from insipidity by lines of unusual 
firmness about the mouth: when she speaks it 
is mostly in a slow, apathetic manner ; but now 
and. then a flash of feeling reveals that there 
are strength and depth in her character. Harry 


has scarcely entered his seventh year, and is a 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 275 


miniature likeness of his father, only less sun- 
burned. 


The letter under discussion ran as follows :— 


Dear Brother and Sister, 

My husband died ten days ago in the 
hope of a blessed resurrection. Moreover God, 
Who does all things well, has been pleased to 
call my sin to remembrance, and to slay my 
son. I am alone indeed now; not in debt, 
having just enough in hand to pay my way 
till Thursday, and then come down to you. 
Will you receive me? We parted in anger, but 
perhaps you will forgive me when you know 
how much I have lost, and guess with how sore 
a longing I desire to lay my bones amongst 
my own people. If I do not hear from 
you by Thursday, I shall understand that you 
cannot forgive: nevertheless remember, in 
the next world if not in this, we must meet 
again. 

Your sorrowful, affectionate sister, 
SARAH LANE. 


276 THE WAVES OF THIS 


‘How can she fancy we’d bear malice after 
all her troubles?’ said Frank; ‘and when it 
was for her own good, too. Write at once, my 
dear, and make her welcome to all we’ve got, 
such as it is, and the best of it.’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Emma, dryly. She was jea- 
lously alive to her husband’s fondness for his 
sister, and by no means relished the prospect of 
her returning to live with them. 

‘ How old is Aunt Sarah ?’ inquired Jane. 

‘Twenty-five last March ; and five years ago 
she was the prettiest girl in Hastings. You 
must furbish up your room a bit, Jenny, and 
make your aunt as comfortable as you can. 
She’s got rather high notions, naturally; but I 
guess they must have come down by this time, 
poor thing! only don’t let us make her feel 
strange coming back to what used to be her 
home—and shall be her home again, please 
God, if she’ll come and share it. Well, I’m 
off, Emma,’ continued Frank, rising and shaking 
himself: ‘you ’ll write a kind welcome, I know, 
for you’re the scholar; and you needn’t say a 


word about me, except that I’m just the same 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. a7 


as five years ago. Good night.’—‘ Good night.’ 
So he left the cottage. 

Then Jane busied herself with washing the 
tea-things and ‘tidying up;’ Harry, at the 
imminent risk of his fingers, began hacking a 
small bit of wood, to produce what he dubbed 
a boat, and Emma sat down to write the letter 


of invitation—TI cannot say welcome :— 


My dear Sister, 

Your letter came to hand this after- 
noon, and Frank and I are very sorry for your 
troubles ; but if you come here I dare say you 
will mind less. Frank says, ‘Come and_ wel- 
come, and be as all was five years ago:’ only 
ours is but a poor place for such as you, and 
you must not mind having Jenny in bed with 
you; and you cannot expect me to do nothing 
but wait on you, as I have a good handful with 
Frank and the children, I tell you plainly. 

So next Thursday we shall expect you, and 
no more at present from 
- Your affectionate sister, 
EMMA HARDIMAN. 


278 THE WAVES OF THIS 


Whilst Emma wrote her letter, Jane, I say, 
washed the tea-things. There was brisk tho- 
roughness in her manner of washing; no great 
handiness, but concentrated energy: she was 
evidently conscientious. Next she coaxed Harry 
to forego his hacking and be put to bed, showing 
tact and good nature with firmness in the trans- 
action. Then, returning with her bonnet on her 
head and a basket on her arm, she asked her 
mother whether she should not take her letter 
to the post. 

‘Yes,’ answered Emma; ‘and you must 
make haste, too, or it won’t be in time. Here’s 
a penny for a stamp; and,’ putting a crown- 
piece into the little girl’s hand, ‘you must bring 
me in some butter, and sugar, and treacle, and a 
loaf, and some tea; and call at Mrs, Smith’s 
for my bonnet, and get a reel of black cotton 
and a paper of needles. And you must run, 
too; you’ll have running enough, I reckon, 
when madam comes.’ 

_ Away ran Jane with all her might, reaching 
the post-office in much more than time to catch 


the evening mail. ‘Well, my little woman, is 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 279 


it a love-letter you’re carrying?’ said the post- 
master; to which she answered demurely, ‘ No, 
sir, please; it’s to my aunt in London. Seeing 
he was busy she added no more, but set off on 
her next errand. This took her to a various- 
smelling shop in one of the back streets, where 
she ran glibly through the accustomed list of 
articles: ‘Half a pound of butter, a pound of 
sugar, two pennyworth of treacle (for Harry), 
a quartern loaf,a quarter of a pound of three- 
and-fourpenny tea, and two rashers of bacon,’ 
supplying the last item from her knowledge of 
what must be wanted, though her mother had 
forgotten to name it. She packed all carefully 
in her little basket, counted the change from 
her crown-piece, chirped to a poor imprisoned 
lark, which could catch not one glimpse of sky 
from his nail in the shop, stroked her old friend 
the black cat, and started for Mrs. Smith’s smart 
establishment in the High Street. 

Mrs. Smith, in a false front and staring 
flowers, presiding behind her millinery counter, 
looked somewhat formidable. Jane preferred 


asking the young woman on the other side for 


280 THE WAVES OF THIS 


the black cotton and needles. These were sup- 
plied and paid for; then Mrs. Smith called out 
to know if she wanted anything else. ‘ Please, 
ma'am,’ began Jane, ‘is mother’s bonnet 
‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Smith, shortly, ‘tell your 


mother that her bonnet isn’t done yet, and she 





needn’t keep bothering after it; for when it’s 
done I’ll send it home, and not before. Good 
evening!’ This bonnet was a bone of con- 
tention between the two women: it was to be 
trimmed in return for certain errands already 
executed by Jane; and the milliners hands 
being filled just now with more lucrative orders, 
great delay ensued in its completion. 

When Jane reached home, she found her 
mother seated hard at work making a black- 
and-white muslin dress with flounces—Emma 
loved to be smart on Sunday—for her own wear, 
Jane put “away the purchases, handed what 
change remained to Mrs. Hardiman, and sat 
down to write a’ copy and work an addition sum 
for Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife, who gave her 
an hour’s instruction two or three times a-week. 


The little girl laboured to do her very best, and 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 281 


had just produced a particularly correct capital 
B when her mother shook the table. Not a 
word said poor Jane, though a great blot was 
jerked out of the pen on to the B. She tried 
again and again for six lines more, but without 
equalling the defaced B; then, that page finished, 
turned her mind to the sum. ‘4 and 4 are 8, 


) 


and I are 9, and 7——’ ‘Jane,’ cried her 
mother, ‘there’s nothing for supper; run out 
and fetch two rashers.’ ‘I got them, mother, 
when I was out, because I knew they were 
wanted,’ was the cheerful answer, and reckoning 
recommenced. ‘4 and 4 are 8,and I are 9, and 
7 are sixt janet “Ves, mother! “ Was 


the letter in time?’ ‘Oh, much more than 


5] 





’ 


time. 4 and 4——’ ‘I shall never get through 
these flounces to-night: put away your books, 
child, and help me. I’m sure your schooling 
isn’t worth much if it doesn’t teach you to 
mind me.’ 

Jane jumped up, though she could have cried, 
laid by her book and slate, and sat down close 
to her mother. In another minute two pairs of 


hands were hemming as fast as they could henr 


282 THE WAVES OF THIS 


at the flounces. Why was Emma in such a 
hurry to finish making her dress? It could not 
be out of regard to her sister-in-law’s feelings, as 
she and her daughter were already in black for 
the death of an old relation who had left them 
a few pounds; neither could it be with an exclu- 
sive eye to Sunday, for this was only Tuesday 
evening: no, she was bent on receiving poor, 
sad Sarah in this fine gown, because she felt 
jealous of her good looks, and wanted to out- 
shine her in Frank’s eyes. 

Jane, who had no idea of this state of things, 
asked, ‘What was Uncle Lane?’ 

‘Don’t call him‘ uncle,” retumed imma, 
sharply; ‘he was no kith or kin to us, but a 
Methodist fografer [photographer], and but a 
poor body at best. I dare say his widow hasn't 
a pound that she can call her own, though she 
is so ready to invite herself to live with them 
who work hard for their bread. However, your 
father must please himself. [Thread snaps.] 
_ Mrs. Smith’s cotton is mere rubbish; you go to 
Widow Wright’s next time, and see if you can’t 


get an honest pennorth; do you hear?’ 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 283 


‘Yes, mother. I shall like to have Aunt 
Sarah in my bed: is she like father?’ 

‘No—yes—I don’t know; don’t bother me. 
You'll have enough and to spare of Aunt Sarah, 
I can tell you.’ 

Silence once more, except for the click, click, 
of thimble and needle; Jane wondering what 
she had said amiss, for her mother was not 
usually cross. 

At last the flounces were finished. ‘There, 
that will do, observed Emma, more compla- 
cently, for they looked puffy and well. ‘I 
declare it’s supper-time; make haste, child, and 


toast the bacon whilst I clear away.’ 


On Wednesday, Jane having, under her 
mother’s direction, scrubbed her own bed-room 
floor, added a blue bason and jug to its furniture, 
and an extra chair. The window looked into 
Frank’s garden, very bright just now with nas- 
turtiums; and though it did not command a sea 
view, the murmur, or tumult, or roar of the great 
deep, could always, except in very still weather, 


be distinctly heard from it. 


284 THE WAVES OF THIS 


The room made ready, let us glance at its 
future occupant. 

Sarah Lane, now so mournful, had years ago 
been not only the prettiest, but almost the 
merriest girl in Hastings. True, she was a child 
of sorrow to her mother, who died without even 
kissing her new-born baby; but, bequeathed to 
the guardianship of father and brother, she never 
missed a mother’s care. Often might Henry 
Hardiman be seen loitering up and down the 
parade, or lounging by the sun-dial, holding in 
his arms his little girl; or, as she grew older, 
putting his finger into her chubby fist to help 
her intoddling. Sometimes, in pleasant.weather, 
he took her in the boat with him for a row; 
sometimes left her on shore under the care of 
Frank, who lugged her unweariedly about the 
beach, where she served as plaything to her 
father’s rugged mates. ? | 

When the time arrived for Frank to go out 
with his father and share his labours, a change 
_ensued for little Sarah. She was sent to a 
superior school—for Henry Hardiman drove a 


flourishing trade—and only went home on a 


« 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 285 


Saturday to stay till the Monday; the Hardi- 
mans, from father to son, observing Sunday, and 
frequenting St. Clement’s Church. Henry and 
Frank were not a little proud of their girl as she 
walked beside them, rosy and good-humoured, 
or, with a pretty childish voice, joined in the 
hymns of the congregation ; and before long she, 
too, learned to be proud of her sturdy, weather- 
beaten father in his Sunday blue coat, and of 
her handsome, merry brother, and to give them 
back warm love for the life-long love which they 
gave her. | 

At fifteen, grown tall and womanly, Sarah | 
came home to keep her father’s house. Her 
school-education included several useful items: 
she was quick and clever with her needle, read 
with fluency and expression, wrote a clear hand, 
was a capital accountant, had a fair knowledge 
of geography, history, and spelling, could ex- 
press herself well in a letter ; moreover, she knew 
a little music and a little dancing, and, thanks 
to natural voice and ear, sang sweetly and tune- 
ably. Very soon the cottage bore witness to 
her good taste. The old-fashioned furniture 


286 THE WAVES OF THIS 


was rubbed up; a few geraniums and fuchsias 
screened the parlour window ; a Virginia creeper, 
scarlet-coloured in autumn, clambered up the 
outer wall; and carefully tended plants ren- 
dered her garden the prettiest in the Tackle 
way. She liked and wore bright colours; and 
when she watered her window- flowers, or 
gathered a nosegay in the garden, or sat among 
the Pier Rocks watching for her father’s boat to 
come across the intense blue, sunny sea, often 
and often passers-by lingered to admire her 
noble beauty and untaught grace. 

When her skill as a needlewoman became 
known, first neighbours, then ladies, engaged her 
to work for them. By this means she amassed 
a little sum of money, carefully stored amongst 
her treasures, but never spent. Sometimes 
Henry, coming home, found her sewing and 
singing, whilst puss purred at her feet, and the — 
kettle sang on the fire. Then he would say, 
‘Bless you, Sally; there’s no need for you to 
_ wear out your plump bits of fingers. Ain't 
Frank and I big enough to work for you?’ 
And she would answer, ‘Ah, but some day when 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 287 


you’re a dear old father, and stay at home in 
the chimney-corner, Frank mustn’t have all the 
pleasure of working for you, and my earnings 
will come in handy, you’ll see.’ 

Several young men courted her for her fair 
face, or clever ways, or kind heart; but to all of 
them she answered a civil ‘No,’ till it came to 
be said among the fisher-folk that Sarah Hardi- 
man must be waiting for a lord. Even John 
Archer, a well-to-do, God-fearing young boat- 
man, who followed her for many an anxious 
month, only at last elicited her gentle, firm ‘ No,’ 
though her father pitied the poor lad, and Frank © 
spoke warmly in his favour. Soon after Sarah 
left school, Frank married and brought home his 
Emma; but Sarah continued mistress of the 
house, her father’s darling, and very dear to her 
brother, which, with her good looks and many 
suitors, made Emma sore and jealous. The 
two young women were not over cordial together, 
though they never spoke of their coolness, and 
Frank was long before he even suspected it. 
So four years passed. 


One Saturday night, as the little family sat 


288 THE WAVES OF THIS 


round the fire, over which spluttered eggs and 
bacon for supper,—as Henry dozed, Frank 
netted, Emma worked for her baby, and Sarah 
turned the rashers, a noise of quarrelling outside 
roused the two men. They started up, but 
before they could reach the door a loud crash 

was heard of something falling and breaking on 
~ the pavement; then three or four voices cried 
‘Shame!’ They ran out, and the women were 
left alone in some anxiety. 

After a few minutes old Hardiman returned. 
‘Sally,’ explained he, ‘here’s a poor travelling 
showman whose box of things has just been 
smashed by big Ben, because he said the sun 
would take his likeness. Ben, I reckon, has had 
a glass too much. So I think it will be but 
Christian-like to take him in for to-night, as he’s 
quite a stranger here, and seems a decent body, 
if you’ll shake him down a bed, my darling.’ 

‘Yes, father,’ answered the girl; and just 
then Frank and a young man entered, bearing 
_ between them the wrecks of a portable photo- 
graphic apparatus. 

‘Sit down and be kindly welcome, : Sarah 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 289 


said, blushing like a rose; she set a chair for 
the stranger, and, with practical hospitality, 
broke three more eggs, and put three more 
rashers into the frying-pan. Then she placed 
those already cooked on the table, with cheese, 
butter, home-made bread, and strong beer. 

At supper the guest warmly thanked his 
entertainers, and proceeded to gratify their 
curiosity about himself. His name was John 
Lane ; both his parents were dead, and, indeed, 
he had no near relation in the world. His 
business was to take photographs, at sixpence 
and upwards ; for this purpose he travelled from 
town to town, seldom remaining in one place 
for more than a few weeks: ‘Till to-night,’ he 
continued, somewhat bitterly, ‘I never met with 
an ignorant brute. He then drew from his 
pocket a small case containing specimens of his 
art, both portraits and landscapes. 

Frank looked at them in silent admiration ; 
but Sarah observed, pointing to a coloured head, 
‘I like that best ; I always want to know what 
eyes and hair people have.’ John Lane glanced 
up at her: ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘the sun can’t paint 


U 


290 THE WAVES OF THIS 


eyes and hair” ‘Well, Mr. Lane,’ interposed 
Emma, ‘I must get you to do Jenny’s portrait. 
When will you be able?’ ‘I will come as soon | 
as I possibly can,’ he answered, eagerly. So 
that evening concluded. 

Next morning, while they sat at breakfast, 
Sarah said to the guest, ‘Our old church is 
worth seeing: I think when you’ve been there 
with us, you'll want to take its likeness too.’ 
But John Lane, flushing crimson, replied, with- 
out looking up, ‘I can’t go there, thank you: 
I’m what you call a Methodist.’ 


Certainly John Lane by no means exagge- 
rated in his own favour when he told his story. 
He might have said that during some years he 
had been the sole support of a bedridden mother, 
for her sake often denying himself all save bare 
necessaries ; that by perseverance and ingenuity 
he had attained proficiency in his art; that he 
had laid up a sum of money, and was in the 
way to add to it. Any one who knew him well 
could have related these facts and more. Two 


years before this period, about the time of his 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 291 


mother’s death, he stopped one Sunday after- 
noon to hear an itinerant preacher, who, bare- 
headed, Bible in hand, went out—to use his 
own phrase—into the highways and hedges, to 
compel men to come in. John stopped to kill 
time ; but the rough, zealous words pricked his 
conscience to the quick: before he went his way 
he had resolved to redeem the time. From 
that day he was an altered man: he read his 
Bible with fervent, persistent prayer, and at 
the first opportunity introduced himself to the 
preacher whose words had convinced him of sin. 
These two men, both honest, both zealous, both 
uninstructed, provoked each other to good works; 
but, utterly alien from church unity, ignored 
many vital doctrines. The elder man, con- 
strained by the love of Christ, sailed as a mis- 
sionary to India: John Lane then believed that 
he was called to fill the gap ; to lift up his voice 
like a trumpet, and proclaim the gospel to souls 
perishing for lack of knowledge. Therefore he 
gave up his fixed quarters in London, and 
wandering from town to town, endeavoured to 


speak a word in season to persons who came 


292 THE WAVES OF THIS 


to him in the way of business ; and on Sundays, 
after attending one service in the Methodist 
chapel, devoted his afternoon to out-of-door 
preaching. 

This was the man whom what we call 
accident, but what is in fact the appointment or 
permission of God, brought to the fisherman’s 
cottage; to Hardiman and Frank, staunch 
churchgoers ; to Emma, not over partial to her 
sister-in-law ; to beautiful Sarah, with her winning 
ways and disengaged heart. 

Of course John Lane deemed himself in 
duty bound to bear witness for the truth here as 
elsewhere. Hardiman listened to him, but shook 
his head when he spoke of the love of the 
Establishment having waxed cold, of experience, 
and professors. ‘I like practisers,’ said Henry 
Hardiman; and trudged to St. Clement’s as 
heretofore. Emma went once to the Methodist 
| chapel, but was mightily offended when the 
preacher, looking, as she declared, full at her 
light blue bonnet, observed, ‘It might have 
been better for Dives in hell if he had not 


dressed so finely.’ Sarah, who would not grieve 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 293 


her father, continued a regular attendant at the 
old parish church once every Sunday ; but if, 
as frequently happened, in her afternoon stroll 
she caught sight of John Lane surrounded by a 
group of listeners, too often idlers, she was sure 
to join his audience and add her sweet voice 
to their hymns. Then followed the walk toge- 
ther home; the earnest communings by the 
way, of God, and Jesus, and heaven, of the 
everlasting burnings to be fled from, and the 
everlasting prize to be run for. 

So these two came to love each other: 
Henry only saw that the young man loved his 
beautiful daughter. 

‘John Lane,’ said he one day, ‘you love 
Sarah, and mean well by her; but I tell you 
plainly she’s not for such as you. She’s said 
“No” to many a man already, and she’ll say 
“No” to you when you ask her: for she shall 
‘never have my blessing on her marrying a 
Methodist, and gadding from place to place 
making mischief. Take my advice, my lad, 
and keep away from Sarah, and she won't run 


after you.’ 


294. THE WAVES OF THIS 


So John kept away from the cottage ; and 
if Sarah fretted, she said not a word of her 
troubles to any one. 

About a week had elapsed since they last 
saw each other, when she, having finished some 
work for a lady at Halton, set off to carry it 
home. <A long round led her to the field-path, 
beset by fence and gates: on the right, where 
the West Hill slopes towards the town, hay- 
making was going on with a pleasant smell. 
Scarcely a breath of wind stirred: and when 
for a few minutes she sat on a wayside bench 
to cool herself, she noticed how a subtle exhala- 
tion rising from the heated ground became per- 
ceptible where it slightly altered the appearance 
of objects seen through it. 

Her business at Halton was quickly trans- 
acted ; and with lightened hands, if not a 
lightened heart, she was turning homewards, 
_when straight before her, pack on back, stood 
John Lane. 

Sarah looked very tall and stately: ‘ Good- 
bye, Mr. Lane,’ said she, ‘since I see you’re on 
your travels again; and I hope you'll find a 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 295 


kinder welcome where you’re going than you 
got at Hastings.’ 

“Good-bye, indeed,’ he answered, gravely, 
‘if you call me Mr. Lane; and I hope I shall 
never find such another kind welcome, if it’s 
only to break my heart afterwards.’ 

It was not in human nature to part so: no 
wonder Sarah’s look softened; no wonder John 
forgot his pack and his migration, and turned 
back towards Hastings with her. He told her 
all: how her father had called him a mischief- 
making Methodist; had said. he had no chance, 
and had better keep away; how he had prayed 
and wrestled against temptation ; ‘ because,’ 
added he, simply, ‘I wasn’t sure, Sarah, that 
you would say “No.” But God gave me grace 
to esteem the reproach of Christ better than 
all the 
the treasures of Egypt.’ Again he said, ‘ Good- 
bye;’ but Sarah said, ‘Stuff! you know, John, 
I can’t answer “ Yes” or “No” till you ask me 





ah, better than much more than all 


something.’ 
So in the field-path John asked, and she 


answered. Then from gate to gate along the 


206 THE WAVES OF THIS 


steaming fields, whilst haymakers rested and 
birds sat silent in the noon heat, they two 
walked, talking earnestly. At the last gate 
they parted, Sarah saying, ‘ Very well, now 
that’s settled. John, I do believe my soul is 
at stake in this matter, for it’s only you in all 
the world who have taught me to love God; 
and though father won’t bless my marrying a 
Methodist, he’ll bless me when I am married.’ 

They were married secretly one Sunday 
morning at the Methodist chapel—not without 
keen stings of conscience, which neither owned 
to the other. When that same day Henry 
Hardiman heard from them what was done, he 
uttered no angry words, but took the blow 
stoutly. To his daughter’s eager expressions of 
affection he merely answered, ‘Maybe, maybe, 
Sally;’ and when a week later she and her 
husband set off for Eastbourne, he blessed her 
gravely before she went. 

But that one trouble had made an old man 
of him. Soon Frank went alone to fish, while 
Henry sat at home in the chimney-corner, hold- 


ing Emma’s youngest born on his knee, or crept 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 297 


along the Tackle Way, with a finger in Jane’s 
chubby fist to help her in toddling. Next, days 
came when he could only sit moping in the 
chimney-corner: the doctor, looking at him, 
shook his head; and Frank wrote Sarah word 
that if she cared for her father’s pardon she 
must come now and ask it. She came: was 
received coldly by her brother and sister-in-law, 
kindly by her father; only when she hung 
about him with tears and fond words, he an- 
swered patiently, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ So 
he died. 

A few more months, and Sarah became 
mother of a small, weak baby—a little Henry. 
A few more years, and still wearing black for 
her dead only son, she sat beside her husband’s 
death-bed: her kind husband, who never once 
had spoken a harsh word to her. Long ago 
they had repented of the cruel wrong done to 
the old man; had confessed their fault one to 
the other, exchanged forgiveness, and prayed 
together for pardon. Their store of money 
wasted during John’s tedious illness ; and Sarah, 
watching him as he lay dying, felt a sort of 


208 THE WAVES OF THIS 


satisfaction in the thought that she had just 
enough left to bury her dead out of sight before 
asking help of her relations. 

His last look was at her; his last words 
were, ‘Thanks be to God, which giveth us the 
victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 299 


2M ad feed Gl 


THURSDAY afternoon arrived. Frank, Jane, and 
little Harry, went down to the station to meet 
Sarah Lane; whilst Emma stayed at home in 
the puffy new muslin, preparing tea and making 
ready for her sister-in-law’s reception. She was 
in high good humour; for Frank before setting 
off had praised her pretty face, and observed, 
‘Poor Sally won’t look like that, I fancy, when 
she comes home again.’ 

She came. Just the old stately grace and 
fine features, but none of the old bloom; her 
eyes were dim and sunken, her cheeks hollow; 
instead of bright colours she wore widow’s weeds. 
She came back to the familiar home, the fond 
warm-hearted brother, the sister-in-law who had 
never loved her; only the dear old man was 
wanting, whose grey hairs she had brought down 


with sorrow to the grave. 


300 THE WAVES OF THIS 


Frank kissed his sister when she crossed the 
threshold, but could not utter one word of wel- 
come, struck dumb by her changed face: it was 
Emma, who, really touched, came forward and 
welcomed her cordially. Not much was said 
that evening. Sarah held little Henry—so like 
his grandfather—on her lap till he fell fast 
asleep there, and Frank carried him upstairs 
for Jane to put to bed. Then Sarah, left alone 
with her sister-in-law, rose, and holding out her 
hand said, ‘Emma, I promised John to ask your 
pardon for the ill-will there has been between 
us, and I do ask it. Please God, I shall not 
stand in your way any more to vex you, nor eat 
the bread of idleness for long. Good-night.’ 
To judge by her wasted form and frequent 
hacking cough, she would not for long eat the 
bread of men at all. 

The next day; and the next, Sarah went 
amongst her neighbours seeking for needlework, 
but without success. Many old friends greeted 
her coldly, for Henry Hardiman’s death was 
generally laid at her door. Some promised to 


employ her, but had no work just then. She 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 301 


called at several houses from which she used 
to receive orders, but her richer customers had 
not yet left London for the sea-side : she trudged 
to Halton, and found that the young lady who 
employed her there had married long ago, and 
gone away to the Lake country. 

Poor Sarah! she was a widow indeed, and 
desolate, trusting in God. 

On Sunday morning, before setting out for 
chapel, she said, ‘Don’t wait dinner for me, as 
I dare say I shan’t be back much before tea- 
time’ Emma tossed her head in its flowered 
crape bonnet, and wondered to Frank ‘which 
of her Methodist friends will give her a dinner ?’ 

Sarah Lane sat down to no dinner that day ; 
but when she felt pretty certain that the con- 
gregation must have dispersed from St. Clement’s, 
she went into the churchyard and sat down on 
her father’s grave. There, motionless, silent, 
past crying, she remained for hours. Will, 
mental powers, life itself, seemed at a standstill ; 
whilst, as if of their own accord, old days came 
back before her eyes. She remembered toddling 
along, helped by the unwearied finger; being 


302 THE WAVES OF THIS 


rowed out to sea in pleasant weather, till, grown 
tired, she nestled to sleep under the rough great- 
coat ; changing once a-week from lessons and 
school discipline to snug home; walking hand 
in hand to church. She remembered being 
installed mistress of the cottage; altering, re- 
newing, embellishing, just as she pleased ; being 
fondled, cared for, scarcely allowed to work for 
him who toiled night and day for her; con- 
tinuing first and dearest even after Frank brought 
a wife to live with them. She remembered the 
new love that hardened her against the old; 
the tacit deceit; the short parting, with its 
blessing, grave and sorrowful; the long, long 
parting, with its patient, unvaried ‘Maybe, 
maybe, Sally.’ Over and over again her eye 


mechanically read,— 


‘HENRY HARDIMAN, 
AGED 55. 


Affliction sore long time he bore, 
Physicians were in vain, 

Till God did please his soul release, 
And ease him of his pain.’ 


She did not perceive that these lines are dog- 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 303 


grel; she only felt that they were true. Her 
baby, her dear John,—their loss seemed light 
while she sat by her dead father whom she had 
killed, and heard his feeble voice saying in her 
ears, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ 

‘My!’ cried Emma, when, as the kettle 
sang on the fire, and Jane knelt on the hearth 
toasting huge slices for tea, Sarah crept into 
the cottage with a few daisies and blades of 
grass in her hand: ‘you startled me just like 


a ghost, and I declare you’re as white as one.’ 


_ It cost Sarah’s pride a severe struggle before 
she could bring herself to apply for work to 
Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife: she feared some 
harsh word might be dropped concerning her 
own conduct years ago; and John blamed for 
what, as she persisted in saying, she led him 
into. But no employment offered elsewhere ; 
and the words of Holy Scripture, ‘If* any 
would not work, neither should he eat,’ kept 
goading her; till one afternoon, by a great 
effort, she set off towards the curate’s old- 
fashioned house in the Croft. A strange servant 


304 THE WAVES OF THIS 


opened the door, and perceiving a decent-looking 
widow, led her straight into the sitting-room. 
Mrs. Grey heard some one enter, but not catch- 
ing the name, looked up from her writing, and 
seeing as she supposed a stranger, rose and 
inquired civilly to whom she had the pleasure 
of speaking. 

‘You don’t recollect me, ma’am, began 
Sarah; but at the sound of that familiar voice 
Mrs. Grey started forward, and cordially pressing 
her hand, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sarah Hardiman— 
Mrs. Lane—how glad I am to see you! I 
heard you were come home, and thought it 
would not be long before you paid‘ me a visit. 
Sit down, and let me‘help you off with your 
bonnet and shawl; for now that you are here I 
shall not let you go so easily.’ 

This kindness quite overcame the poor widow. 
A great flow of tears relieved her; and when 
Mrs. Grey spoke soothing words, she answered, 
‘Let be, ma'am, let be: it’s the first time since 
I buried John, and it does me good.’ 

So the curate’s wife, who had known her | 
from a baby, seated herself by her; and drawing 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 305 


the bowed-down head to her bosom, let her sob 
there; not attempting to check her grief, but 
only whispering that she understood the lightest 
part of it, having lost her own youngest boy 
five months ago. When the sobs grew less 
choking, she poured out a glass of wine and 
made her eat some cake—little guessing how 
sorely her guest stood in need of food; since 
Sarah grudged herself every morsel she ate 
whilst she earned nothing and was a burden 
to Frank and Emma. 

At length the purpose of her visit was told: 
“I came to ask,’ said Sarah, ‘whether you would 
give me some needlework. I have been trying 
ever since I came back to find employment, and 
no one wants my services. Will you let me 
work for you ?’ 

Mrs. Grey replied directly, ‘I have plenty of 
things to make just now, and you shall have 
them all if you like to begin to-morrow.’ Then, 
remembering that in days of yore there was not 
much cordiality between the sisters-in-law, she 
added, ‘If you don’t mind, I should prefer your 
not taking them home, at least not at first, but 

x 


306 THE WAVES OF THIS 


working here with me. Perhaps some day it 
may comfort you to tell me about your troubles : 
you don’t know how often I thought of you and 
felt for you whilst you were away.’ 

Just then little Jane Hardiman, whose course 
of study had undergone temporary suspension 
on account of the extra bustle at home, came in 
for her hour’s lesson. Sarah rose to go; but 
Mrs. Grey begged her to sit down if she was 
not in a hurry, and wait till her niece was 
ready to walk home with her. Then business 
commenced. 

The addition sum was produced, worked at 
last without one blunder ; the blotted B elicited 
a mild rebuke ; a flower-pot added to the sam- 
pler was inspected and approved. Next Jane, 
who had, in preparation, read it over by herself, 
was questioned on the parable of the lost sheep 
(Luke, xv. 4). 

‘Where was the shepherd pasturing his flock?’ 

- Tn the wilderness.’ 
‘What is a wilderness ?’ 
‘A barren place, without houses, or trees, or 


grass, or water.’ 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 307 


‘But what then were the sheep to eat ?’ 

Some moments spent inthought. ‘Did they 
have manna, ma’am ?’ 

‘No, I do not suppose they had manna. In 
a wilderness there are certain spots where water 
springs out of the ground; and round about 
this water or fountain the ground is fertile, fruit- 
bearing and other shady trees grow, and grass 
springs up. I recollect once reading of a tra- 
veller who found a single most beautiful’ lily 
blooming by such a fountain. Doubtless the 
good shepherd fed his flock on a fruitful spot 
of the wilderness, as the Psalm says,—‘ He shall 
feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth 
beside the waters of comfort.” How many 
sheep were there?’ 

‘A hundred.’ 

‘Who took care of them ?’ : 

‘ Their shepherd.’ 

‘Did the shepherd fall asleep at night and 
let the wolf come and catch them ?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘No, certainly. He kept watch over his flock 
by night: if he saw a roaring lion or a great 


308 THE WAVES OF THIS 


heavy bear coming to tear them, he rose and 
killed it or drove it away. Well, ninety-nine 
sheep followed him wherever he went : but what 
did one do ?’ 

‘It got away.’ 

‘Where did it go ?’ 

‘Did it go into the other part of the wilder- 
ness ?? 

‘Yes; quite away from the grass and water, 
where there was nothing but sand. It couldn’t 
eat sand or drink sand, could it ?’ 

‘No, ma’am.’ 

‘So it must have died very soon of hunger 
and thirst, even if no wild beast had devoured 
it.. Dideit:die ? 

‘No; because the shepherd went and fetched 
ite 

‘And when he found it, did he drive it 
before him, striking it and using angry words ?’ 

‘No; he laid it on his shoulders rejoicing, 
and all his neighbours rejoiced with him when it 
came safely back.’ 

‘Very well. But this is not merely a beau- 
—tiful tale about a shepherd and his flock; it is 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 309 


one of the sacred parables spoken by our blessed 
Saviour. What do I mean by a parable?’ asked 
Mrs. Grey. | 

A long pause: at last,—‘Stories that tell 
about other things.’ 

‘Really that will not do for an explanation, 
said the teacher ; ‘ because, though I understand 
what you mean, a person who knew nothing of 
what a parable is would be none the wiser. 
Perhaps your aunt will kindly help us. Then, 
turning to her, ‘Mrs. Lane, will you inform 
your niece what a parable is?’ 

Sarah, who, as we know, had been well 
taught in her childhood, and who had greatly 
increased her religious knowledge during the 
years of her married life, replied readily, ‘A 
spoken emblem ; just as holly in a window tells 
us of Christmas.’ 

‘Thank you, yes; or as the cross brings 
before our eyes Him Who hung thereon. And 
since all our blessed Saviour’s parables teach us 
something concerning God, or heaven, or our 
own duty, we must spare no pains to understand 
them. Now then, Jane, tell me the hidden 


310 THE WAVES OF THIS 


meaning of this parable of the lost sheep. The 
shepherd is es 

‘Jesus Christ, who calls Himself the Good 
Shepherd’ (John, x. 11). 

“The flock are '¢ 


‘Every one.’ 








‘Not every one. He has “other sheep” 
(John, x. 16). The wilderness where they lived 
is this world. What was the fruitful spot where 
he pastured them ?’ 

No answer. ‘It is the Church, continued 
Mrs. Grey; ‘the fold or pen if we speak under 


an emblem, the Church if we speak plainly. So 
“a 





this flock is not all people, but 

‘Christian people.’ 

‘Yes; in those days every one who was a 
Christian at all belonged to the fold, or Church. 
What, then, did the sheep do who went wander- 
ing away ?’ 

‘It committed a sin.’ 

‘And if the good shepherd had not gone to 
seek and to save that which was lost, what must 
have happened to it ?’ 


‘It must have died,’ answered Jane, earnestly. 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 311 


‘But he went and looked about for it, and 
brought it back, and called all his friends and 
neighbours to rejoice with him.’ 

‘Quite right. A verse which follows tells us 
who the friends and neighbours are: which verse 
is that ?’ 

The child considered a moment, and then 
repeated, ‘I say unto you, that likewise joy 
shall be in heaven over one sinner that re- 
penteth, more than over ninety and nine just 
persons, which need no repentance’ (Luke, 
N'7). 

‘Or,’ resumed the teacher, ‘it is explained 
still more clearly at the end of the next parable 
(ver. 10): “Likewise, I say unto you, there is 
joy in the presence of the angels of God over 
one sinner that repenteth.””’ 

Now Mrs. Grey, much as she loved Sarah 
Lane, and admired her many good qualities, 
could not doubt that she fell into grievous error 
when she turned her back on the church of her 
baptism, and followed ever so dear a person 
into schism; neither could she judge how eager 


the widow might be to lead her family after 


312 _THE WAVES OF THIS 


her. Therefore she added, trying not to look 
conscious,— 

‘This sheep by sin wandered, as it supposed, 
quite away from its kind shepherd’s eye and 
care; but if, instead of going far, it had just 
crept through the paling and sat down outside 
the fold, and when its master called it back, 
had answered, “ Master, I will follow thee 
whithersoever thou goest : but the grass outside 
the fold is more nourishing than that which grows 
inside, and the sheep whom I lived with there 
do not love and follow thee as entirely as I wish 
to do,’—would its master have been pleased 
with it?’ 

‘Oh no!’ 

‘Yet this, Jane, is just what many people 
do now. They fancy they can find better food 
for their souls out of. the Church than in it, and 
so join the Dissenters ; refusing to return, though 
they see written in the Bible that God added 
to the Church daily such as should be saved. 
That will do for the present: next time we 
will talk about the parable of the lost piece of 


money.’ 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 313 


Then Jane drew from her basket a large 
‘bunch of rose-coloured seaweed, the dock-leaved 
fucus, neatly smoothed on white cardboard, and 
said timidly, ‘ Please, ma’am, father desires his 
respects; and will you accept this, as you seem 
to fancy such things? It came up in the net 
last week, and he says he never found such a 
handsome piece of the sort before.’ 

Mrs. Grey looked delighted: ‘Oh, how 
lovely! I have nothing like it. Do thank your 
father very much for his kind present, and tell 
him it will be the beauty of my collection.’ 


So day by day Sarah Lane went to the 
Croft ; and when it was not convenient for her 
to sit with Mrs. Grey, took her needlework up 
into the nursery: for nurse, as her mistress 
knew, was a good steady person, much more 
likely to lead the young widow right than to 
be led wrong by her. Or sometimes she carried 
her work home, because Emma complained of 
being left always alone. Or sometimes, if the 
day was fine, and the material one that could 


not fade, she sat amongst the Pier Rocks sew- 


314 THE WAVES OF THIS 


ing, much as she had sat years ago watching for 
her father’s boat. 

Native air, bracing sea-breezes, a mind at 
rest as to the supply of daily bread,— under the 
influence of these blessings her health rallied, 
her wasted figure became plumper, and her step 
more elastic. By little and little, old friends 
warmed towards her, and old customers came 
back; soon she had as many orders as she could 
execute. 

Mrs. Grey remarked, ‘Why, Sarah, you’re 
growing quite stout and rosy: I do believe, after 
all, you may get as strong and live as long as 
any of us.’ . 

The widow turned a little pale, but answered 
cheerfully, ‘Please God, ma’am, I shall, if it is 
His will” Only the cough continued, hack, 
hack, and scarcely seemed to get better. 

One day the curate’s wife came into her 
nursery, carrying a basin full of whitish jelly. 
‘Do try this for your cough, Mrs. Lane,’ said 
she; ‘and if it does you good, I will tell you 
how to make some more.’ Sarah tried it: the 


taste was rather pleasant, and in a day or two 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 315 


that extreme irritation at her chest abated. 
Then she learned that this soothing jelly was 
made by boiling down a whitish seaweed (the 
carrageen, or Irish Moss), which washes up in 
abundance on the Hastings coast, and adding a 
little sugar and lemon-juice to render it pala- 
table. 

Jane and Harry, when they walked on the 
shingle, used to fill their baskets with white 
weed for poor sick Aunt Sarah. Sometimes 
Harry got lazy, and would not take any pains 
to find the carrageen moss; but conscientious 
Jane looked carefully for it, and seldom failed to 
collect a little store, which was dried in the sun, 
and then laid by against cold wet weather, when 
she might not be able to go out seeking it. 
Her kind teacher had once made her learn the 
text, ‘Whosoever shall give you a cup of water 
to drink in My name, because ye belong to 
Christ, verily I say unto you, he shall not lose 
his reward’ (Mark, ix. 41); explaining that any 
act of kindness done to any person for the sake 
of pleasing our Lord Jesus Christ, will be re- 
membered by Him and rewarded at the last 


316 THE WAVES OF THIS 


day. This it was which made Jane so diligent; 
and often, when she felt inclined for a run in the 
lanes and green fields to gather hyacinths, or 
' pink lychnis, or bunches of fiery poppies, she 
coaxed Harry to come down on the shingle 
instead, and look for pretty stones and shells 
and star-fishes, whilst she picked up seaweed. 

One certain Wednesday morning symptoms 
of extraordinary bustle became evident in the 
snug cottage on the Tackle Way. To judge by 
appearances, a birth, marriage, or death at the 
least, must have been impending: no, it was 
only Emma Hardiman’s quarterly cleaning-day, 
which, having come round, occasioned such 
commotion. Frank was packed off from a 
quick breakfast to his fishing; Sarah received 
a broad hint that the sooner she vacated the 
sitting-room the better it would be; Harry was 
sent into the garden with his knife and bits of 
wood ; and Jane was bid ‘put away her nonsense 
[a prize picture-book received only the day pre- 
viously for good conduct], and turn her hand to 
something useful.’ 


Now, as Emma on cleaning-days was fretted 


» 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 317 


and snappish, Sarah pitied the poor child; so 
instead of starting for the Croft, she said to her 
sister-in-law, ‘Indeed, I would rather not stir 
out to-day, or do needlework either; only that 
dress ought to go back at once to Ecclesbourne, 
as Mrs. Bright said she wanted it in a hurry. 
Will you let the children carry it home for me? 
They can take their dinner with them, and keep 
out of our way all day, whilst I remain to help 
you. We shall get through the work twice as 
fast, and do it twice as well. Don’t you re- 
member the hand that I am at scrubbing and 
tidying ?’ 

So the dress was neatly pinned up in a 
handkerchief for Jane to carry, and a basket 
stocked with two hunches of bread and two 
blocks of cold bacon was given to little Henry. 
Sarah sent also the bill, and showed Jane where 
to sign her name when she took the money ; 
for Mrs. Bright liked to pay at once for what- 
ever she had. 

It was a fine warm morning when the children 
started along the East Cliff towards Eccles- 


bourne, trudging amongst all sorts of pleasant 


318 THE WAVES OF THIS 


sights, sounds, and smells. There was the scent 
of a hayfield, the sweetness of dog-roses and 
honeysuckle, the fragrance of thyme beneath 
their feet; there were chirpings in the hedges, 
scattered skylarks in the air, a murmur of waves; 
there was blue sky above their heads, bright 
living green and golden sunshine around them, 
elittering sea far down below the cliff, flowers 
in the grass and about the hedges, butterflies 
here, there, and everywhere. 

Cap in hand, shouting and jumping, away 
ran Harry after the butterflies; whilst elder 
Jane, precious parcel in hand, plodded steadily 
forward, sometimes calling her truant brother, 
sometimes waiting for him to come up with her. 
This walk over the glorious East Hill was doubly 
delightful after those many strolls along the 
shingle. 

Mrs. Bright lived in a pretty house that 
stood in its own neat garden. The children 
felt quite shy as they opened the wicket-gate 
and proceeded soberly along the gravel walk 
up to the house-door. Perhaps Mrs. Bright 


would see them out of window, and wonder 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 319 


what they wanted. Harry got behind Jane, and 
looked as if he had never run in his life, much 
less after a butterfly; Jane put the best face 
she could on the matter, and rang the bell. 

But when a maid-servant, having opened the 
door and asked their business, showed them 
into the parlour, Mrs. Bright’s good-natured 
smile and manner gave them courage. She had 
spied them as they came along the garden— 
not treading on the borders or meddling with 
the flowers,—and wondered in her own mind 
who that neat little girl and boy might be. 
When she found they were Mrs. Lane’s niece 
and nephew come with her new dress, saw Jane 
write her name readily at the foot of the bill, 
and noticed her civil ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ and 
curtsey, she was quite pleased, and showed them 
several pretty things. First of all, they watched 
a large white cockatoo crack a nut, and heard 
him say, ‘Pretty Poll,’ and ‘Pretty cockatoo ;’ 
next they saw a glass bowl full of water, in 
which swam gold and silver fishes, much hand- 
somer than those their father brought ashore 
in his boat. Mrs. Bright showed them some 


320 THE WAVES OF THIS 


coloured pictures—amongst which Jane recog- 
nised the good shepherd seeking his lost sheep 
—in a handsome old clasped Bible, and gave 
a story-book to the girl, but shook her head 
when she heard the boy could not say his letters. 
Then, handing each of the children a cup of 
milk, which they drank at once, and a hunch 
of sweet cake to serve as pudding after their 
bread and bacon, she sent them away very well 
pleased. 

Down the steep cliff steps they scrambled to 
the rocky beach below, to sit on a huge stone 
which was hollowed ‘something,’ as Harry said, 
‘like father’s arm-chair,’ and eat their dinner. 
By this time the beauty of the day was gone; 
clouds which in the early morning had been 
ranged along the horizon were spread over a great 
portion of the sky, and the air felt much cooler. 
The children, however, were hungry and happy 
enough not to notice these changes, but held 
their feast with great glee. Then they had a 
long game at hide-and-seek in and out amongst 
the rocky fragments, Jane hunting for Harry, 


and tickling him well when she found him. At 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 321 


last she proposed setting off homewards; but 
Harry by this time was tired and sleepy, so she 
sat down in the ‘arm-chair’ with his curly head 
in her lap, and soon both the little ones were 
fast asleep. 

When Jane woke it was with a start, anda 
loud sound roaring in her ears. She felt chilled 
and cramped, but could not at first remember 
where she was; when she did remember, she 
shook up Harry in a great fright, and bade him 
keep fast hold of her hand and come straight 
back to the cliff path. During their sleep a thick 
brown fog had risen from the ground like smoke ; 
it hid the cliff, and even the rocks and shingle 
at a very few yards’ distance: only Jane could 
' make out the sea distinctly, because the tide 
was rising ; waves were foaming, breaking, roar- 
ing, close at hand amongst the huge stones; 
not a moment must be lost in escaping for their 
lives. 

They scrambled as fast as they could from 
the terrible advancing sea ; but that was slowly, 
for the fog thickened and thickened, and many 
a fall they got slipping on the slimy tangle. 

¥ 


322 THE WAVES OF THIS © 


Hand in hand they kept on stoutly, but in the 
darkness turned to one side, being quite unable 
to make out the cliff. Suddenly a shower of 
foam fell on them. Harry stood stock-still, 
hiding his face against his sister, and trembling 
all over; he did not cry or utter a word, but 
he could not move one step further. ‘Come on, 
dear,’ said Jane, trying not to seem frightened ; 
‘perhaps we shall see the steps directly. But 
Harry could not stir; he clung to his sister, 
utterly unable to move a foot forward. Louder 
and louder the tumult, thicker and thicker the 
foam, closer and closer came the strong, broken, 
irresistible sweep of sea. 

Jane felt ready to sit down and cry; but 
she remembered the Good Shepherd seeking 
His lost sheep, and in her heart prayed Him 
now to seek and save His little lambs. Next— 
there was no help for it—she caught up Harry 
in her arms, and stumbled as well as she could 
cuess towards the cliff. 

At last they dimly discerned it, not so high 
as at the spot where they descended, stretching 
sheer, rugged, upwards; but no trace of steps 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 323 


was on its precipitous face. This was a different 
point of the East Hill, and at high tide the sea 
dashed against its foot. 

A little above the ground a narrow shelf 
jutted out of the rock. This they succeeded in 
gaining, but further ascent was impossible. 
Jane made Harry kneel by her side, and toge- 
ther they repeated the Lord’s Prayer in small, 
sad voices: then, sitting down, she took her 
brother on her lap, and, rocking backwards and 
forwards, tried to sing him to sleep before the 
dreadful death came; praying in her heart all 
the while as well as she was able; not even 
starting, lest she should wake the little one, when 
the first cold touch of water reached her feet. 

But it was not God’s will that the water- 
flood should drown them, and the deep swallow 
them up; at that very moment lights flashed 
above their heads, and loud shouts reached 
them. Jane screamed in answer, bidding Harry 
scream too, lest they should not be heard; and 
scream he did with all his might. Then a man 
secured to a stout rope was swung over the clift 


by his companions, and took both children in 


324 THE WAVES OF THIS 


his strong arms; then all three were drawn up 
into safety, just as a foaming wave swept over 
the rocky shelf. 

‘O that men would therefore praise the Lord 
for His goodness, and declare the wonders that 
He doeth for the children of men !’ 


Next Sunday morning — 

‘Frank Hardiman and his family desire to 
return thanks to Almighty God for great mercies 
teceived,—gave out Mr. Grey, before reading 
the ‘ General Thanksgiving ;’ at which announce- 
ment half the congregation turned their heads 
in one direction. 

There knelt Frank, his handsome, sunburnt 
face full of emotion: on his right hand was 
Emma, on his left Jane, holding Harry almost 
as tightly as when they clung together on the 
terrible rock. But who could that be with 
bowed head, kneeling next to the boy, and 
sobbing in her prayers? There was no mis- 
taking the close widows bonnet and heavy 
black dress, though the patient widowed face 


remained hidden; once more Sarah Lane was 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 325 


kneeling where so often she had knelt by her 
father’s side: if that day her sweet voice could 
not be heard joining in the hymns, doubtless in 
her heart she praised God. 

Jane had said, ‘Please do come, Aunt Sarah;’ 
so she yielded to one longing of her divided 
heart, and worshipped once more in the familiar 
holy house; yet the next Sunday found her 
again amongst the Methodists. ‘John,’ she 
pleaded, ‘seemed upbraiding me all through the 
service for deserting him in his cold grave.’ 

‘Oh, Mrs. Grey,’ she said, earnestly, ‘he may 
have been right or wrong, I can’t tell; but it’s 
- not for me to sit in judgment on him who loved 
Christ and spent himself to save souls. I led 
him into sin, but he led me to repentance: if 
I’m patient, he showed me first the way; and if 
I’m humble, he prayed without ceasing that I 
might become so.’ 

‘God forbid, replied Mrs. Grey, tenderly, 
‘that either you or myself should sit in judg- 
ment on any man, least of all on one who loved 
our blessed Lord, and laboured to do Him ser- 


vice. This I know’—and the wife coloured— 


326 THE WAVES OF THIS 


‘your husband taught my husband a living 
lesson of boldness, self-denial, and trampling 
false shame under foot. Often when I see him 
earnest in the pulpit, or zealous in his schools, 
or energetic amongst his poor, I remember John 
Lane, and thank God for his example. Do not 
let us dwell on the worn, suffering body, at rest 
now in its dust; let us lift our minds towards 
the free soul, resting, we both hope, in Paradise. 
Oh, dear Sarah, if he now sees that there was a 
more excellent way than he himself trod, can 
you imagine he would grudge you the know- 
ledge of it? Would he not rather say, ‘ Be 
very jealous for the unity of Christ’s fold, even 
whilst you open a wide heart of love to all who 
love the Lord Jesus?” It is not my part to 
exhort you; only recollect, if ever you allow 
my husband to teach you anything which you 
need to learn, he will but be repaying to you 
some part of all he owes John Lane,’ 

From that day forward one great barrier be- 
tween the widow and the Church was removed : 
she no longer fancied that Church people were 
criticising and branding her dead John; she no 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 227 


longer felt as if, by continuing a Methodist, she 
stood by one whose excellences were unappre- 
ciated, and whose errors, if such she admitted 
them to have been, were triumphantly con- 
demned. Often before this, when she sat at 
work listening to the earnest, simple words in 
which Mrs. Grey expounded parable or miracle 
to Jane, and drew out its lesson of mercy or 
warning,—sometimes dwelling on the holiness 
without which no man shall see the Lord, some- 
times on the yearning Divine compassion which 
sought and saved that which was lost, some- 
times on the many mansions, sometimes on the 
one fold under one Shepherd,—conscience had 
spoken ; now at length she listened to its voice 
only to answer, ‘Speak, Lord; for Thy servant 
heareth.’ 

‘Line upon line, precept upon precept; here 
a little, and there a little :’ so the message was 
revealed to her as she was able to receive it. 
First she opened to her tried friend the curate’s 
wife, stating her difficulties, willing, if it might 
be, to have them removed; next she took cou- 


rage, spoke to Mr. Grey himself, and found in 


328 THE WAVES OF THIS 


him a patient listener, a faithful guide, and one 
who felt and professed deep obligation to John 
ate, eae 

Back from meeting-house to church, through 
church up to the blessed Sacrament of the Altar, | 
the grace of God led her. 

Another five years of patient progress passed 
away; let us take a parting glance at Sarah 
Lane. 

Sarah Lane still? Yes, though faithful John 
Archer tried once and again to win a kind an- 
swer. She continues to wear black for her dear 
husband’s sake, and at least once in the year 
journeys up to London to see and tend his 
grave. Though she cannot preach on the high- 
ways, his example stirs her up to energy in the 
Sunday-school, and tenderness in visiting suf- 
ferers. Many a time has she stinted her own 
meal to feed the hungry ; many a time has she 
_ curtailed her night’s rest to nurse the sick. She 
teaches Jane her business, calls her her right 
hand and little forewoman, yet feels perhaps a 
secret preference for Harry, so like his grand- 
father. 


TROUBLESOME WORLD. 329 


Though very diligent at her work, and fre- 
_ quently in the season hurried by her employers, 
she is seldom absent from the Wednesday and 
Friday morning service, held alternately at St. 
Clement’s and All Saints’ Churches. Sunday 
she strictly and thankfully observes ; partaking, 
whenever an opportunity offers, of the comfort- 
able Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood. 
Certainly now neither the prettiest nor the 
merriest woman in Hastings, but I truly believe 
this widow is one of the happiest : having chosen 
that good part which shall not be taken from 
her; thankful that her idol was removed for a 
season, if so she might receive him for ever ; 
able to say at last, ‘Whom have I in heaven 
but Thee ? and there is none upon earth that I 
desire in comparison of Thee. Amen. Even 


so, come, Lord Jesus.’ 


THE END. 


4a 





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By DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 


From the ‘ Athenzum.’ 


‘To the public in general this volume will announce a new poet. Toa small 
but influential circle of thinkers its publication will be only the formal evidence 
of powers and accomplishments long since recognised. . . . We shall have 
written to little purpose if there be any poem in the volume to which our readers 
will not eagerly resort.’ 


From the ‘Fortnightly Review.’ 


‘There are no poems of the class in English—I doubt if there be any even in 
Dante’s Italian—so rich at once and pure. Their golden affluence of images 
and jewel-coloured words never once disguises the firm outline, the justice and 
chastity of form. No nakedness could be more harmonious, more consummate 
in its fleshly sculpture, than the imperial array and ornament of this august 
poetry. . . . There has been no work of the same pitch attempted since Dante 
sealed up his youth in the sacred leaves of the ‘‘ Vita Nuova ;” and this poem of 
his name-child and translator is amore various and mature work of kindred genius 


and spirit.’ 
From the ‘ Pall Mall Gazette.’ 


‘Here is a volume of poetry upon which to congratulate the public and the 
author ; one of those volumes, coming so seldom and so welcome to the cul- 
tivated reader, that are found at a first glance to promise the delight of a new 
poetical experience. There is no mistaking the savour of a book of strong and 
new poetry of a really high kind; no confounding it with the milder effluence 
that greets us from a hundred current books of poetry, in various degrees praise- 
worthy, or hopeful, or accomplished ; and we may say at once that it is the 
former and rarer savour that is assuredly in the present case to be discerned.’ 


From the ‘ Globe.’ 


‘In all [the Poems] the same qualities are apparent. They have in high 
measure each highest gift of which lyric poetry is capable. Passion, imagina- 
tion, creative power, tenderness, and pathos are all apparent, and are accom- 
panied by exquisite sense of melody, unexampled beauty of form, splendid 
colour, and, if we may use such a term, by absolute fragrance.’ 


F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 


fifth Edition. Two vols. Crown 8vo. cloth, price 16s. 


THE EARTHLY PARAS: 


A collection of Tales in verse. 
By WILLIAM MORRIS. 


Part 


Prologue, March and April, containing the Stories of— 


THE MAN BORN TO BE KING. 
THE DOOM OF KING ACRISIUS. 


THE PROUD KING. 


THE WANDERERS. 
ATALANTA’S RACE. 


Part II. 


May to August, containing the Stories of— 


CUPID AND PSYCHE.: THE SON OF CRSUS. 
THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE. THE WATCHING OF THE 


THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS. FALCON. 
THE LADY OF THE LAND. PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE. 


OGIER THE DANE. 


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THE LAND EAST OF THE SUN LAUGHED AGAIN. 
AND WEST OF THE MOON, THE STORY OF RHODOPE. 
ACONTIUS AND CYDIPPE. THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN, 


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Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, price 8s. 
THE 


ete DEATH OF JASON: 
A Poem, in Seventeen Books. 


By WILLIAM Morris, Author of ‘ The Earthly Paradise.’ 





Notices of Mr. Morris’s Works. 


*Morris’s ‘‘ Jason” is in the purest, simplest, most idiomatic English, full of 
freshness, full of life, vivid in landscape, vivid in human action—worth reading 
at the cost of many leisure hours, even to a busy man. 

“We must own that the minute attention Mr. Morris bestows on scenic details 
he also applies to the various phases of human emotion, and ofttimes he fills the 
eyes with sudden sorrowless tears of sympathy with some homely trouble aptly 
rendered, or elevates our thoughts with themes charming in their pure simplicity, 
and strong with deep pathos.’—7izes. 


‘A thorough purity of thought and language characterises Mr. Morris, . . . 
and ‘* The Earthly Paradise” is thereby adapted for conveying to our wives and 
daughters a refined, though not diluted, version of those wonderful creations of 
Greek fancy which the rougher sex alone is permitted to imbibe at first hand. 
Yet in achieving this purification, Mr. Morris has not imparted tameness into his 
versions. ‘The impress of familiarity with classic fable is stamped on his pages, 
and echoes of the Greek are wafted to us from afar both delicately and imper- 
ceptibly. . . . Suffice it to say, that we have enjoyed such a thorough treat 
in this, in every sense, rare volume, that we heartily commend it to our readers. 

‘Or Part III.—Those who found the charm of Mr. Morris’s first volume so 
rare and novel that they were fain to sigh when the last page was finished, may 
now congratulate themselves upon the publication of a third part. Nor will they, 
in what is now presented to them, deem that aught of this charm is diminished 
through the circumstance that style and manner are no longer novel.’—Saturday 
Review. 


‘It may be doubted whether any poet of our day equals Mr. Morris in ena- 
bling his readers to see the objects which are presented to him. It is certain, 
however, that this power has never been displayed on so large a scale by any 
contemporary. A word or two should be said on the brief descriptions of the 
months, and upon the musings of the wanderers, both of which intervene between 
the respective stories. Of these the former afford relief, by fresh and graphic 
glimpses, of the passing seasons, and the latter are written in a sweet and pensive 
vein, which, after the stir and interest of the narrative portion, floats to the ear 
like music caught from sea in the momentary lull of the billows.’ 

“Or Part III.—A volume which, in its treatment of human motives and 
feelings, displays, we think, higher qualities than the writer has yet exhibited, 
and which in its painting of external scenes has that admirable fusion of the real 
and ideal which we have praised heretofore.’—A theneum. 


‘The book must be read by any one who wishes to know what it is like; and 
few will read it without recognising its author for a poet who has struck a new 
vein, and who preferring his art above popularity, has achieved a work which 
will yet be popular wherever true poetry is understood.’ 

‘Or Part III.—In the noble story of ‘‘Gudrun” this (dramatic) power is 
well sustained throughout, and in versifying this Saga, Mr. Morris has added a 
genuine and pathetic vitality to the characters of the ill-starred heroine of Olaf 
and Oswif, Kiartan and Bodli, Ingibiorg and Refna. This poem, taken alto- 
gether, the most ambitious that Mr. Morris has yet produced, is well worth a 
careful analysis, which, however, we have no space to giveit.’—~Padl Mali Gazette. 


F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 


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THE STORY OF GREVTT 
STRONG. 


Translated from the Icelandic of the Grettis Saga (one of 
the most remarkable prose works of ancient 
Icelandic Literature), 


By W. MORRIS anp E. MAGNUSSON. 


‘ The translator’s work has been admirably done; the English may fairly be 
called faultless ; and it is no slight satisfaction to read a book in which every- 
thing is expressed in the fittest phrase, and in which we feel no temptation to 
make any verbal changes. —Saturday Review. 


Now ready, crown 8vo. in an ornamental binding designed 
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THE STORY OF THE VOLSUNGS 
AND NIBLUNGS. 
With Songs translated from the Elder Edda. | 
By WILLIAM MORRIS and E. MAGNUSSON. 


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SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE. 


By ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, Author of ‘ Atalanta 
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F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 





8vo. cloth gilt, 10s. 6d. 


THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF 
SeerOrN MAUNDEVILE, Kr. 


A.D. 1322-46. 


Which Treateth of the Way to Hierusalem; and of the 
Marvayles of Inde, with other Ilands and Countryes. 


Illustrated with 72 most curious Wood Engravings. Originally Printed in 
English by Richard Pynson. 


NOW REPRINTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND A 
GLOSSARY. 


By J. O. HALLIWELL, Esq. 


‘Wherever English, in its early, robust, manly form, is read, Sir John Maun- 
devile is admired. His humble piety, his solemn reverence for the holy places 
which he visited, his simple faith in all he heard, his acute observation of 
what he actually saw, his self-sacrifice, his devotion,’ his credulity, his firm faith, 
his long endurance, appear in almost every page, and make his volume not 
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LONDON: 


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